UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE  VENEERINGS 


BY 
SIR  HARRY  JOHNSTON 

THE  GAY-DOMBEYS 
MRS.  WARREN'S  DAUGHTER 
THE  MAN  WHO  DID  THE  RIGHT 
THING 


THE    VENEERINGS 

A    NOVEL 


BY 

SIR  HARRY  JOHNSTON 


gotfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN   THE  UNITED  STATES   OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  March,  1922. 


TO 

W.  M.  J. 

anything  deemed  good  in  this  book  is 
affectionately  dedicated  by  its  Author;  in 
grateful  appreciation  of  the  sympathy 
shown,  help  given,  and  enjoyment  shared 
during  more  than  twenty-five  years  of  a 
very  varied  life  in  common. 


y  a 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

OF  all  the  stories  Charles  Dickens  wrote  none  appealed 
to  me  more  than  "  Our  Mutual  Friend,"  because  it  was 
the  most  modern  in  tone  and  setting  (for  even  "  Edwin 
Drood  "  is  dated  by  Dickens  some  distance  back  in 
time).  "  Our  Mutual  Friend  "  was  obviously  intended 
to  begin  in  1860,  and  to  end — so  far  as  it  terminated — 
in  1864.  At  that  period  John  Harmon  and  Bella, 
Sophronia  and  Alfred  Lammle,  Georgy  Podsnap  were 
more  or  less  at  the  beginning  of  their  careers,  at  the 
opening  of  their  great  life  experiences.  It  was  an  irre- 
sistible temptation  to  me  to  consider  how  they  might 
have  developed,  what  pursuits  they  would  have  fol- 
lowed, and  with  what  results.  I  have  imagined  the  fresh 
people  who  would  have  been  drawn  into  their  orbits, 
and  the  descendants  these  old  and  new  characters  might 
have  left — if  they  have  quitted  the  scene:  though  I 
like  to  think  that  a  few  of  the  original  people  of  that 
remarkable  transitional  decade  of  the  'sixties  are  still 
here  contemplating  life  as  I  am ;  preserved  from  dissolu- 
tion by  the  products  of  the  famous  drug  firm  which  the 
greatest  of  fiction  writers  first  discerned  in  Mincing 
Lane. 

As  the  temptation  could  not  be  resisted,  arid  the 
theme  similarly  appealed  to  the  imagination  of  my 
British  and  American  publishers,  here  is  the  result. 

H.  H.  JOHNSTON. 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES  ...  i 

II    JOHN  HARMON 17 

III  SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS 32 

IV  "ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS"  ...  45 
V    CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867 73 

VI  L'ExposixioN  UNIVERSELLE:   1867   ....  91 

VII    AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS 114 

VIII    MIRIAM  CLEMENTS 138 

IX    MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE 160 

X     CAMBRIDGE:    1882-1883 178 

XI     1885-1887 196 

XII    MERVYN'S   MARRIAGE 222 

XIII  HETTY  VENEERING 244 

XIV  MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS 266 

XV    GRAVES'S  DISEASE 293 

XVI  MERVYN  IN  1892 311 

XVII  MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH 330 

XVIII  IN  SOUTH  AFRICA 348 

XIX  MERVYN  AND  REGGIE 373 

XX  1896-1899 400 

XXI  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY    .     .     .     .     .     .  422 

XXII  ELIZABETH'S  WEDDING  MORNING     ....  433 

ix 


THE  VENEERINGS 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  VENEERINGS   AND  THE   LAMMLES 

WHEN,  in  the  summer  of  1864  the  affairs  of  the 
Veneerings  came  to  "  a  resounding  smash,"  we 
are  told  that  they  retreated  before  the  financial  storm 
to  Calais,  and  that  they  lived  on  the  proceeds  of  Mrs. 
Veneering's  jewellery. 

At  first,  they  halted  at  a  dingy  hotel,  cheap  and  out 
of  the  accustomed  track  of  English  tourists,  in  order 
to  take  breath  and  make  their  plans  with  deliberation. 
"  They  "  included  Hamilton  Veneering,  forty- four, 
"  wavy-haired,  dark  " — but  with  a  few  silver  hairs  in 
his  glossy  chevelure — "  tending  to  corpulence,  sly,  mys- 
terious, filmy  ...  a  sufficiently  well-looking  prophet," 
as  his  creator,  if  not  his  passport,  described  him ;  Anas- 
tasia,  his  wife,  about  thirty-two,  tall  for  an  English- 
woman of  those  days,  with  very  fair  hair  tending  to 
cinder  grey,  an  aquiline  nose — a  little  red  at  the  bump 
in  the  middle  and  at  the  tip — pale  blue  eyes,  and  a 
manner  hitherto  arch  and  propitiatory,  but  since  their 
downfall  rather  plaintive;  and  two  children,  the  elder 
a  girl  of  four,  named  Joanna  after  her  godfather 
(John  Podsnap),  and  the  younger  a  boy,  Melvin,  just 
two  years  old. 

When  Melvin  "  came  to  town  " — a  phrase  Mrs. 
Veneering  used  in  those  days — it  was  the  dead  season 
in  Brompton.  Owing  to  his  impending  arrival,  the 


2  THE  VENEERINGS 

customary  trip  to  Herne  Bay  or  Ryde  had  been  pre- 
termitted,  and  the  confinement  took  place  at  a  time 
when  their  friends  were  scattered  about  the  sea-coast 
and  the  countryside.  In  September,  1862,  it  became 
necessary  to  consider  the  baptism,  name,  and  god- 
parents of  the  new  baby,  Veneering's  son  and  heir. 
They  decided  to  appeal  to  the  next  most  respected 
friend  of  the  family  (after  Mr.  Podsnap)  :  dear,  kind 
Mr.  Melvin  Twemlow,  Lord  Snigsworth's  cousin  and 
pensioner,  who  never  left  town  because  no  one  invited 
him  to  do  so.  Twemlow  accepted ;  mainly  because  he 
had  not  the  strength  of  mind  to  say  "  no."  He  pur- 
chased— very  ruefully — a  silver  mug  and  conferred 
his  foolish  fore-name  on  the  babe.  Veneering  stood 
proxy  for  the  other  godfather,  Alfred  Lammle,  absent 
at  the  seaside  with  his  wife;  therefore  the  principal 
person  in  this  story  started  life  with  the  not  very  advan- 
tageous or  stirring  names  of  Melvin  Alfred  Veneering. 
His  mother  represented  at  the  font  the  absent  god- 
mother, old  Lady  Tippins,  who  pleaded  inability  to 
write  letters  at  a  health  resort  as  an  excuse  for  neither 
accepting  this  responsibility  nor  sending  a  christening 
gift. 

The  eldest  child,  Joanna — afterwards  known  as 
Jeanne — had  come  at  a  time  when  the  Veneerings  were 
newly  installed  in  a  new  house  in  a  new  quarter,  and 
were  striving  to  create  for  themselves  a  recognised 
position  in  the  new  middle  class  which  was  growing 
up  as  a  secondary  "  Society  "  in  Brompton,  South 
Kensington,  Bayswater,  and  Pimlico — one  of  the  many 
outcomes  of  that  far-reaching  achievement  of  the 
Prince  Consort,  the  great  Exhibition  of  1851,  which 
raised  Art  and  Commerce  in  public  estimation  and 
prompted  the  building  of  "  Stucconia,"  on  either  side 
of  Hyde  Park.  The  Veneerings'  first  baby  was  an 
important  detail  in  their  mise-en-scene  for  promoting 
intimacy  and  inspiring  confidence.  The  second  child 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES       3 

was  less  necessary  to  these  ends,  since  its  father  had 
got  into  Parliament ;  and  it  bordered  on  being  a  worry 
to  a  mother  who  wished  to  spend  most  of  her  time 
calling  and  being  called  on,  lobbying  and  extending 
her  social  circle  for  her  husband's  interests. 

So  that  those  who  dined  and  lunched  with  Melvin's 
parents — they  seldom  became  more  intimate — scarcely 
realised  his  separate  existence,  and  ascribed  his  occa- 
sional fractious  screams  when  he  was  teething  to  the 
staid  Joanna,  now  short-coated  arid  able  to  trot  about 
the  nursery  floor  or  after  her  brother's  perambulator 
in  the  Park.  That  is  perhaps  why  no  specific  mention 
of  little  Melvin  appears  in  the  early  references  to  the 
Veneering  household. 

He  had  outgrown  his  infant  fractiousness  and  had 
acquired  something  of  Joanna's  staidness  and  solemnity 
by  the  time  he  was  two  years  old ;  which  was  fortunate 
for  his  overworked,  agitated,  tearful  mother,  who  in 
making  her  hurried  preparations  for  exile  deemed  it 
best  to  leave  the  English  nurse  and  nursemaid  behind 
and  look  after  the  children  herself,  till  they  were  settled 
down  in  France  and  knew  if  their  much  reduced  income 
would  permit  of  the  employment  of  a  French  attendant 
for  the  children. 

More  or  less  on  Melvin's  second  birthday,  which  was 
only  ten  days  since  they  had  given  a  large  dinner  party 
to  discuss  the  Wrayburns'  marriage,  Veneering  had 
come  home  from  the  City  and  confided  to  his  palpitat- 
ing wife  that  they  must  pack  up  their  portable  valua- 
bles, put  house  and  furniture  into  the  hands  of  agents, 
pay  off  and  dismiss  the  staff  of  servants,  and  make  up 
a  cock-and-bull  story  to  account  for  a  hurried  depar- 
ture. Otherwise  his  creditors  might  foreclose  and — 
and — they  might  be  prevented  from  carrying  off  with 
them  enough  to  furnish  a  modest  income  in  some  cheap, 
foreign  resort.  Fortunately  it  was  out  of  the  season, 
and  nearly  all  their  inquisitive  acquaintances  who  had 


4  THE  VENEERINGS 

dined  with  them  the  week  before  last  were  dispersed 
to  moors  and  seaside,  to  the  Upper  Thames,  and  to 
the  Continent. 

Having  reached  Calais — whither  they  would  travel 
direct  by  a  discreet,  uncomfortable  Boulogne  steamer 
which  left  London  Bridge  at  6  a.m.,  and  called  at  Calais 
on  the  way — he  would  apply  to  the  Speaker  for  the 
Chiltern  Hundreds,  and  so  close  his  Parliamentary 
career ;  and  thrust  on  to  his  solicitor  an  assuagement  of 
angry  creditors,  partner,  and  clerical  staff  by  an  assur- 
ance that  a  full  explanation  and  an  eventual  satisfaction 
of  all  claims  should  be  made.  Had  he  spoken  French 
at  that  time  he  would  have  said  to  his  little  world  what 
Napoleon  III.  telegraphed  from  the  seat  of  war,  six 
years  later :  "  Tout  peut  se  reparer  " ;  with  just  as  much 
improbability  of  speedy  reparation. 

In  a  general  way  that  excuse  was  given  which  covers, 
temporarily,  a  multitude  of  sins:  a  break-down  in 
health,  a  mysterious  malady  which  obliged  Mr.  Veneer- 
ing and  his  devoted  wife  to  proceed  instanter  to  a 
foreign  spa,  and  there  to  stay  for  an  indefinite  period. 

In  those  days  when  news  circulated  so  much  more 
slowly,  when  people  thought  twice  and  thrice  about 
sending  a  telegram,  it  occurred  to  no  one  to  stay  the 
departure  of  Mr.  Veneering  by  a  writ,  "  ne  exeat 
regno  " ;  nor,  indeed,  did  the  majority  of  Veneering's 
friends  and  associates  know  that  his  house  was  to  let 
and  his  room  at  the  Mincing  Lane  office  was  vacant 
till  he  was  temporarily  installed  on  the  second  floor 
of  a  drab-coloured,  second-rate  hotel  in  the  St.  Pierre 
quarter  of  Calais.  They  came  here  less  for  the  imme- 
diate need  of  economy  than  for  greater  concealment — 
Veneering  having  thought  he  had  descried  on  the  quay, 
as  the  steamer  churned  her  way  into  the  harbour,  two 
old  friends  of  his  prosperous  days,  whom  he  was  not 
anxious  to  meet:  the  Alfred  Lammles.  But  little 
Melvin — "  Why  not  Mervyn  ?  "  he  used  to  ask  irritably 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES      5 

in  his  boyhood — and  his  sister  Joanna  or  Jeanne  had 
their  first  taste  of  misery,  discomfort,  and  sleeplessness 
in  their  dark,  dirty,  bedroom-nursery  at  the  Hotel  des 
Quatre  Saisons;  for,  from  out  of  the  grained  wood- 
work, the  skirting  that  bordered  a  wallpaper  of  dis- 
solute ugliness,  there  would  come  at  night-time  swarms 
of  thirsty  bugs  to  suck  their  blood  and  raise  huge  red 
weals  on  their  poor  little  bodies. 

Their  mother  first  shook  and  next  slapped  them  for 
their  inopportune  wailing  and  whimpering  till  she  dis- 
covered the  cause.  Then  she  was  horrified,  and,  almost 
for  the  first  time  asserting  herself,  forced  her  husband 
by  her  upbraidings  to  seek  actively  some  refuge  for  his 
wife  and  family  which  should  at  any  rate  be  clean  and 
free  from  vermin,  even  if  retired  from  the  view  of  their 
inquisitive,  interrogating  fellow  countrymen. 

Hamilton  Veneering,  at  this  juncture,  wanted 
neither  to  reveal  himself  to  the  British  Consul  nor  to 
the  British  chaplain ;  so  he  was  forced,  in  his  need  for 
advice,  to  frequent  the  quay  at  the  hours  of  steamers' 
arrival,  and  even  to  stroll  drearily  about  the  vicinity 
of  the  Casino  and  up  and  down  the  few  fashionable 
streets  in  order  to  run  up  against  the  Lammles  whom, 
on  his  arrival,  he  had  striven  to  avoid.  On  the  third 
day  of  his  search  they  met,  face  to  face,  Alfred  greet- 
ing him  with  a  certain  ferocious  cordiality  and 
Sophronia  with  an  ironic  smile.  They  had  just  seen 
the  first  garbled  account  of  his  departure  in  a  London 
newspaper,  and  adjourned  with  him  to  the  station 
refreshment  room  to  enlighten  him  from  their  own 
experience  as  to  ways  and  means,  and  how  he  should 
set  about  finding  a  temporary  home. 

Who  were  the  Veneerings? 

The  name  "Veneering,"  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to 
trace  it,  was  probably  (as  "Van  Eering")  that  of 
Flemish  immigrants  into  Essex  into  Elizabethan  times ; 


6  THE  VENEERINGS 

or  they  may  have  come  from  Holland  as  late  as  the 
reign  of  William  III.  One  offshoot  of  this  stock 
settled  in  the  sleepy,  peaceful  town  of  Dunmow  of  the 
famous  flitch.  For  generations  they  had  been  chemists, 
apothecaries,  barber-surgeons,  distillers,  or  dyers. 
Hamilton  Veneering's  father  was  a  well-to-do  chemist 
in  Dunmow.  He  gave  his  son  a  good  education  for 
those  days  and  then  apprenticed  him  to  a  wholesale  firm 
of  drug  merchants  in  Mincing  Lane,  with  whom  he 
had  considerable  dealings — Chicksey  and  Stobbles. 

By  the  time  this  son  was  twenty-five  he  had  risen  to 
be  the  principal  traveller  and  commission  agent  of  the 
firm,  and  had  greatly  increased  their  business  in  the 
Midlands  and  Yorkshire.  After  he  was  thirty-five, 
his  father  put  seven  thousand  pounds  into  the  business 
and  bought  him  a  partnership.  The  Crimean  War, 
with  its  unfamiliar  diseases  and  its  awakened  respon- 
sibility for  the  health  of  our  overseas'  army,  con- 
siderably stimulated  the  drug  business.  Hamilton 
Veneering,  though  he  was  afterwards  unfairly  depicted 
as  a  parvenu  and  a  "  climber,"  was  far  from  a  fool, 
and  he  believed  fortunes  might  be  made  out  of  drugs. 
He  was  not  content  to  jog  along  old  courses  in  City 
premises  of  eighteenth-century  pokiness,  darkness, 
dust,  and  discomfort.  He  overbore  the  other  partners 
— old  Chicksey,  who  was  getting  senile;  and  the  mid- 
dle-aged, farmer-like  Stobbles,  who  had  country  tastes, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  the  study  of  chemical  manures 
and  horticulture,  and  had  almost  lapsed  into  the  posi- 
tion of  a  sleeping  partner.  Veneering  prevailed,  and 
made  their  office  and  warehouse  spacious,  well-lighted, 
and  attractive,  with  an  inner  court-like  front  on 
Mincing  Lane,  a  comfortable  "  samples  "  room,  much 
plate  glass  and  shining  mahogany. 

He  interested  himself  specially  in  the  panacea  of  the 
day:  quinine,  long  known  as  Jesuits'  Bark,  but  not 
until  after  the  Crimean  War  prepared  in  a  convenient 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES       7 

form  for  administration  to  fever  patients;  while  the 
supply  and  the  source  of  the  precious  bark  were  capri- 
cious and  uncertain  as  they  were  restricted  to  the 
mountain  forests  of  north-western  South  America. 

Veneering,  when  the  Crimean  War  was  over,  went  to 
Amsterdam  to  secure  a  regular  supply  of  "  bark  "  from 
the  new  Dutch  plantations  in  Java.  He  even  put  money 
into  schemes  for  planting  several  species  of  trees  in 
British  India;  and  he  brought  out  a  rival  tincture  to 
Warburg's,  which  combined  quinine  with  tonic  acids 
and  alkalis.  He  also  visited  little-noticed  chemical  fac- 
tories in  the  Rhineland,  where,  since  1830,  they  had 
been  experimenting  with  coal-tar  products — dyes,  medi- 
cines, germicides. 

In  1858  his  father  died,  leaving  him  another  eight 
thousand  pounds,  which  he  put  into  the  firm's  capital. 
In  the  same  year  old  Chicksey,  the  senior  partner,  also 
expired,  bequeathing  to  an  only  daughter  (Anastasia) 
his  interest  in  the  partnership,  and  fifteen  thousand 
pounds.  Veneering,  who  was  then  "  a  sufficiently  well- 
looking  "  man  of  handsome  proportions  and  insinuat- 
ing address,  promptly  wooed  and  won  the  sentimental 
Miss  Chicksey;  and  after  the  fashion  of  those  barbaric 
days,  when  woman  was  little  more  than  a  chattel,  dealt 
as  he  thought  best  with  her  fortune.  Wisely  providing 
against  a  speculator's  vicissitudes,  he  put  eight  thou- 
sand pounds  of  her  money  into  a  marriage  settlement, 
and  sank  the  remainder  in  the  firm's  working  capital. 

They  were  married  in  1859.  In  that  same  year  he 
made  several — what  would  now  be  called — "corners"  in 
drugs  which  were  coming  into  demand ;  and  his  specu- 
lations, which  brought  him  first  into  touch  with  that 
shady  character,  Alfred  Lammle,  took  a  bolder  turn 
outside  the  drug  market  and  in  the  purlieus  of  the 
Stock  Exchange.  On  the  strength  of  having  made 
three  coups,  which  brought  to  his  private  account  and 
to  the  firm  about  twenty-five  thousand  pounds,  he 


8  THE  VENEERINGS 

decided  that  a  greater  career  lay  open  to  him  than  con- 
trol of  the  drug  market.  He  bought  his  way  into 
Parliament  with  an  expenditure  of  five  thousand 
pounds  to  secure  an  unopposed  return  from  a  corrupt 
little  constituency  on  the  Essex-Herts  borders,  and  he 
moved  from  a  square  off  the  Clapham  Road  to  a  four- 
storied  house  in  Brompton;  laid  in  a  supply  of  the 
finest  wines,  engaged  a  butler  and  two  footmen,  and  a 
first-rate  cook,  and — always  with  an  eye  on  the  fickle 
Goddess  of  Chance — lavished  expensive  and  saleable 
jewellery  on  his  wife,  and  so  won  her  to  placid  acqui- 
escence, in  his  schemes. 

He  and  she  together  had  a  fluctuating  income  of 
about  two  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and 
they  began,  in  1860,  to  live  at  the  rate  of  twice  that 
sum.  Veneering  was  led,  by  Lammle  and  others,  into 
bolder  and  wilder  speculations.  He  lost  much  money 
over  his  Indian  cinchona  plantations  and  the  subsidiary 
company  which  was  to  finance  them.  But  the  crash 
came  about  a  wild  scheme  connected  with  Cuba,  the 
Southern  Confederated  States,  and  plantations  worked 
by  slave  labour,  the  whole  based  on  an  impossible  vic- 
tory of  the  South  over  the  North  and  the  intervention 
of  France  and  Spain — the  sort  of  thing  Lammle  and 
his  raffish  associates  would  have  got  up  and  believed  in. 

In  the  summer  of  1864,  Veneering — grown  stout 
and  flabby  with  good  living  and  Parliamentary  sloth — 
lacked  the  energy  and  nerve  to  meet  his  losses,  espe- 
cially as  Lammle  had  disappeared  the  previous  year. 

Thus,  in  a  panic,  the  Veneerings  fled  to  France  to 
join  the  scattered  colony  of  derelict,  shady,  or  se- 
questered English  folk — bankrupt  in  money  or  in  repu- 
tation, guilty  of  the  lesser  misdemeanours  outside  the 
scope  of  Extradition  Acts!  or  of  blameless,  genteel, 
and  cultured  quality,  pensioners  mostly,  who  found  it 
pleasanter  to  live  elegantly  and  joyously  on  the  soil 
of  France  in  the  prosperous,  gently-taxed  days  of  the 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES      9 

Second  Empire  than  to  maintain  a  shabby  home  in 
Victorian  England.  Mrs.  Veneering's  settlement 
money  would  bring  her  in  four  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
her  jewellery,  judiciously  sold  in  Amsterdam  and  Brus- 
sels, might  produce  funds  that  should  yield  another 
four  hundred  pounds  annually.  Veneering  was  as- 
sured that,  with  an  income  of  seven  to  eight  hundred 
pounds,  you  might  live  like  a  prince  in  the  Pas  de 
Calais. 

Stobbles,  he  considered,  should  put  aside  his  garden- 
ing and  his  forcing-pits,  and  grapple  with  the  affairs 
of  the  firm.  Veneering  could  send  his  advice  and  sug- 
gestions from  Calais,  might  indeed  once  more  turn 
commercial  traveller,  get  into  touch  with  Java  through 
Amsterdam,  and  perhaps  acquire  for  Chicksey,  Veneer- 
ing, and  Stobbles  some  "  pull  "  over  Dutch  supplies  of 
quinine.  He  would  write  to  his  solicitor  (Mortimer 
Lightwood),  and  suggest  that  the  new  financial  star  of 
the  second  magnitude — John  Harmon — might  look  into 
the  affairs  of  the  Drug  House  in  Mincing  Lane  and 
perhaps  set  it  on  its  feet  again — make  a  good  thing 
out  of  it — pick  up  the  cinchona  plantations  in  Mysore. 

Hamilton  Veneering  was  something  of  a  snob,  but 
much  more  of  a  dreamer,  a  mystic,  and  a  mystery- 
man;  a  little  careless  about  other  people's  money  and 
reckless  in  backing  his  own  ideas,  yet  not  naturally  bad 
and  not  without  an  element  of  shrewdness  derived  from 
his  Hamilton  mother,  long  dead,  the  daughter  of  a 
Scottish  head  gardener.  It  was  curious,  therefore,  that 
he  should  so  readily  have  come  under  the  influence  of 
such  a  type  as  Alfred  Lammle. 

A  Cuban  planter  over  in  England  and  France,  trying 
to  raise  capital,  had  introduced  Lammle  to  Veneering, 
in  1859.  It  was  afterwards  said  that  Lammle  was  the 
son  of  a  Liverpool  merchant  of  dubious  character  en- 
gaged in  the  Brazilian  slave  trade,  who  had  married  a 
Levantine  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  Greek  residing  at 


io  THE  VENEERINGS 

Marseilles,  who  was  interested  in  his  slave  ventures. 
Another  version  had  it  that  Alfred's  father  was  a  book- 
maker and  trainer  of  Newmarket  who  went  out  to  the 
Levant  in  1815  to  obtain  Arab  horses  from  the  stud 
of  a  Turkish  Pasha,  and  brought  home  with  him  a 
Smyrna  beauty  as  his  wife.  Certainly,  Alfred  pre- 
sented a  slightly  "Armenoid"  appearance,  as  we  should 
now  classify  it.  He  was  described  thus  by  Dickens  in 
the  'sixties:  "Too  much  of  him  in  every  way;  too 
much  nose  of  a  coarse,  wrong  shape;  too  much  smile 
to  be  real,  too  much  frown  to  be  false.  Too  many 
large  teeth,  suggestive  of  a  bite  .  .  .  gingerous  whis- 
kers .  .  .  dark-brown,  glossy  hair  .  .  .  extensive  shirt 
front.  .  .  ." 

Whatever  his  origin  and  ancestry  he  first  emerged 
into  the  notice  of  the  City  as  a  man  who  had  made 
money  by  some  flashy  scheme  in  Cuba,  something  to 
do  with  cigars  or  tobacco  plantations,  and  had  also 
profited  from  a  speculation  in  Brazilian  coffee  and  a 
gamble  in  Greek  bonds.  But  at  the  age  of  forty  he 
took  a  house  in  Sackville  Street,  Piccadilly,  and  settled 
down  as  a  professedly  wealthy  "  financier." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  luck  left  him  in  London.  He 
came  a  succession  of  croppers — carefully  concealed — 
over  Spanish  and  Mexican  stocks  and  shares,  and 
backed  several  disappointing  favourites  at  Newmarket 
and  Epsom. 

At  this  juncture,  when  he  was  inveigling  Veneering 
into  some  of  his  schemes,  he  met  Sophronia  Akershem 
at  a  Veneering  dinner  party.  Veneering  vaguely  al- 
luded to  her  as  a  woman  of  property.  She  had  a 
showy  appearance  and  a  bold  manner,  more  attractive 
to  men  than  the  vapid  conversation  and  responses  of 
the  average  Victorian  young  lady.  How  would  it  be 
to  marry  her,  and,  when  times  were  lean,  to  live  on  her 
income  and  generally  gain  by  this  marriage  and  the 
Veneering  influence  a  footing  in — at  any  rate  the  fringe 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES    n 

of — decent  "  Society  "  ?  Veneering,  tactfully  sounded, 
took  up  the  scheme  enthusiastically.  He  had  known 
Miss  Akershem  at  Harrogate  years  ago.  .  .  .  Father 
now  dead,  having  bequeathed  all  he  possessed — could 
not  say  how  much — to  Sophronia  .  .  .  only  near  rela- 
tive an  aunt.  .  .  .  Sophie  was  a  deuced  fine  woman 
.  .  .  surprised  she  hadn't  gone  off  the  hooks  years  ago 
— suppose  it  was  because  father  kept  her  all  to  himself 
at  Harrogate.  .  .  . 

Alfred  Lammle  felt  sure  there  were  other  reasons 
in  the  background  to  explain  why  Sophronia  with  her 
striking  appearance  and  her  little  fortune  was  still 
single  at — should  he  say  thirty-eight?  And  probably 
Veneering  knew  of  these  deterrents.  Still,  he  could 
not  afford  to  be  over  particular,  as  he  was  by  no  means 
anxious  to  expose  his  own  affairs  to  the  searching 
inquiry  of  a  father  or  a  brother  of  some  more  eligible 
partie. 

Veneering  and  his  obedient  Anastasia — an  easily 
humbugged  sentimentalist — hurried  on  the  marriage. 
They  could  not  furnish  their  dear  Sophronia  with  posi- 
tive details  about  Alfred  Lammle's  fortune.  But  he 
was  certainly  rich,  he  had  his  fingers  in  so  many  profit- 
able pies,  and  a  house  in  Sackville  Street;  and  Anas- 
tasia considered  him  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  with  beau- 
tiful whiskers  and  expressive  eyebrows.  .  .  . 

Hamilton  Veneering  probably  had  his  special  reasons 
for  pressing  this  marriage  on  Alfred  Lammle.  So- 
phronia was  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  Horace  Aker- 
shem, an  analytical  chemist  at  Harrogate,  in  the  employ 
of  the  Corporation  for  testing  and  generally  super- 
vising the  eighty-eight  mineral  springs.  In  his  youth, 
as  a  medical  student  attending  lectures  on  chemistry  in 
London,  Horace  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  tragic  actress 
of  the  day,  Dolores  Macbride,  a  woman  some  years 
older  than  himself  who  "  had  Spain  in  her  blood,  and 
the  Jew."  He  loved  her  so  much  that  he  would  have 


12  THE  VENEERINGS 

married  her,  but  her  drunken  Scottish  or  Irish  husband 
being  alive  (and  living  on  her  earnings)  he  could  not. 
Sophronia  was  the  pledge  of  their  affection,  named 
after  one  of  her  mother's  most  striking  character-parts. 
In  course  of  time  their  passion  cooled  and  they  drifted 
away  from  one  another.  Horace  Akershem  sent  for 
his  widowed  sister — afterwards  Sophronia's  "  gorgon 
aunt  " — to  keep  house  for  him.  Dolores  died  of  pneu- 
monia on  tour  when  her  daughter  was  fourteen.  Aker- 
shem, advised  of  this,  at  once  brought  Sophronia  home 
to  live  with  him,  despite  the  sour  objections  of  his 
sister.  Harrogate  arched  its  eyebrows  a  little,  but  it 
was  politely  assumed  that  its  analyst  was  a  widower. 

Sophronia  had  inherited  something  of  her  mother's 
Spanish  beauty,  but  she  grew  up  under  a  blight.  She 
had  a  disagreeable  manner,  and  though  her  looks  at- 
tracted, her  ironic  smiles  and  sarcastic  tongue  repelled 
Yorkshire  suitors;  who,  indeed,  were  additionally  de- 
terred from  honest  proposals  by  the  doubt  as  to  her 
legitimacy  and  the  extent  of  her  marriage  portion. 
Something  about  her  inspired  romantic  attachments  on 
the  part  of  young  girls.  But  mothers  drew  their  daugh- 
ters away,  and  Sophronia  made  no  effort  to  retain 
friends  of  her  own  sex:  there  was  nothing  to  be  got 
out  of  them.  .  .  . 

Veneering  first  made  her  acquaintance  when  he  and 
she  were  about  thirty.  He  was  visiting  her  father  on 
business  concerning  drugs  and  Harrogate  salts.  She 
had  a  passing  fancy  for  his  appearance,  his  silky  good 
looks,  half -closed  eyes,  mysterious  silences.  She  soon 
saw  he  did  not  intend  to  marry  her :  "  Not  enough 
money,  I  suppose,"  she  bitterly  commented.  Yet  she 
gave  herself  to  him,  thrust  herself  on  him,  perhaps 
hoping  this  self-abandonment — which  he  accepted  with 
the  nonchalance  of  a  commercial  traveller,  accustomed 
to  bonnes  fortunes — might  lead  to  some  development, 
some  change  in  the  dreary  round  of  Harrogate 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES    13 

existence.     However,  it  led  to  nothing,  not  even  to 
scandal.  .  .  . 

In  course  of  time  her  father  died  and  left  her,  in 
trust,  two  thousand  pounds — all  he  had  to  leave,  save 
a  few  hundreds  to  her  aunt.  The  sole  trustee,  an  ex- 
mayor  of  Harrogate,  bought  her  an  annuity  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  pounds  a  year.  Tfien  life  with  her 
gorgon  aunt,  on  narrow  means,  became  intolerable, 
with  middle  age  coming  nearer  and  nearer.  .  .  .  She 
wrote  to  Veneering  and  asked  if  she  might  come  and 
spend  a  season  with  them  in  town,  at  the  same  time 
hinting  she  had  been  left  independent  means  by  her 
father.  He  was  a  little  afraid  of  refusing,  and  thought 
it  might  be  better  to  acquit  any  obligation  he  was  under 
by  this  hospitality.  Then  came  the  bright  idea  of 
marrying  her  to  Lammle.  .  .  . 

After  the  wedding,  on  their  honeymoon,  a  certain 
amount  of  truth-telling  and  mutual  admissions  became 
necessary.  Alfred  discovered  that  the  supposed  "  little 
fortune  "  of  Sophronia  was  no  more  than  an  annuity 
of  a  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds;  Sophronia,  plying 
her  husband  with  indignant  questions,  realised  that 
Alfred  Lammle  was  within  measurable  distance  of 
insolvency.  Of  all  his  gambler's  winnings  he  had 
barely  fifteen  hundred  pounds  left.  The  hatred  they 
at  once  conceived  for  one  another  was  neutralised  by 
considerations  of  self-interest  and  a  desire  to  be  re- 
venged on  the  Veneerings,  who  had  "  sold  "  them. 

So  they  decided  on  a  partnership:  the  Lammles 
against  the  World.  They  would  return  to  their  circle 
of  acquaintances  smiling,  keep  up  a  good  appearance 
as  long  as  they  could,  and  together  exploit  any  one 
foolish  enough  to  be  ensnared. 

Their  first  two  years  of  partnership,  however,  were 
productive  of  no  ill-gotten  gains.  Sophronia,  though 
she  might  show  herself  defiant  of  conventional  morality 


i4  THE  VENEERINGS 

in  the  private  discussions  she  held  with  her  husband, 
was  yet  not  as  wholly  bad  as  he,  half  bully  and  half 
coward.  She  withdrew  from  one  or  two  schemes  for 
extorting  money  or  earning  commissions  because  she 
had  eleventh-hour  scruples,  or  because  something  in 
her  intended  victim  touched  her  sense  of  pity.  So 
when  Alfred's  diminishing  capital  was  near  exhaustion 
and  his  creditors  were  beginning  to  foreclose,  the 
Lammles  anticipated  the  flight  of  the  Veneerings  by  a 
year. 

They  tried  first  Calais,  then  Boulogne,  Ostende, 
Dieppe,  and  had  now — September,  1864 — decided  that 
an  appartement  in  Calais  suited  them  best  as  a  rallying 
point.  Once  they  had  crossed  the  Channel,  fickle  For- 
tune changed  her  frowns  to  smiles.  Without,  as  yet, 
having  to  resort  to  escroquerie,  Alfred  Lammle  had  the 
deuce's  own  luck  at  billiards,  cards,  and  in  backing 
French  and  Belgian  horses.  They  won  a  prize  of 
twelve  thousand  francs  in  a  Belgian  lottery;  and  de- 
voting a  portion  of  the  proceeds  to  an  early  summer 
visit  to  Baden-Baden,  came  back  with  a  further  sum  of 
fifteen  hundred  pounds  won  at  roulette  and  rouge- 
et-noir. 

So  that  when  Veneering  met  them  to  solicit  their 
advice,  to  ask  even  to  be  initiated  into  Continental  life 
by  their  superior  wisdom  and  experience,  the  Lammles 
were,  for  the  time,  so  prosperous  as  to  feel  almost 
respectable.  Their  vow  to  revenge  themselves  on  the 
Veneerings  for  the  disillusionment  following  on  their 
marriage  had,  for  the  time,  faded  from  memory,  or 
was,  at  any  rate,  in  abeyance.  It  occurred  to  both  of 
them  that  Hamilton  Veneering  might  be  useful  in  their 
schemes,  and  they  were  therefore  prepared  to  help  him 
and  his  aquiline  wife  to  establish  themselves  at  Calais. 

So  here  they  were,  the  three  of  them,  sitting  amicably 
at  a  square  wooden  table  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Gare,  on 


THE  VENEERINGS  AND  THE  LAMMLES    15 

September  10,  1864,  discussing  an  excellent  dejeuner  a 
la  fourchette. 

Mr.  Alfred  Lammle  wore  a  stove-pipe  hat  with  a 
narrow  brim  (the  brim  of  Veneering's  had  the  new 
London  curl),  a  black  alpaca  jacket  buttoning  once, 
high  up ;  a  double-breasted  white  pique  waistcoat,  and 
shepherd's  plaid  trousers  of  a  bold  pattern.  His  neck- 
tie was  a  "  fold-over,"  dark  blue,  with  white  spots  and 
a  gold  horseshoe  pin ;  his  collar  a  "  stand-up,"  with 
blue  vertical  stripes.  The  trousers  were  of  the  peg- 
top  style;  and  altogether  he  would  have  been  deemed 
very  dressy,  in  a  kind  of  French-English  fashion.  He 
had  still  the  refulgent  auburn  whiskers  which,  from 
the  application  of  some  form  of  brilliantine,  had  an 
iridescent  gleam  in  sunlight,  and  he  now  grew  a  glossy, 
reddish-brown  moustache  with  drooping  ends. 

Sophronia  wore  a  round,  Spanish  hat  of  the  type 
made  fashionable  by  the  Empress  of  the  French.  It 
was  of  black  felt  and  had  a  scarlet  pompon  in  front. 
Her  glossy  black  hair  was  en  bandeaux,  with  its  back 
plaits  stowed  away  in  a  blue  silk  net  on  the  nape  of 
her  neck.  Over  a  loose-sleeved  muslin  bodice  (white, 
sprigged  with  scarlet  sprays)  she  wore  a  Spanish  bolero 
jacket  of  black  velvet.  Her  waist  was  encircled  with 
a  scarlet  ribbon-band,  and  the  ample  skirt,  looped  up 
in  scollops  over  a  stiff  black  petticoat,  was  of  the  same 
white,  scarlet-sprigged  muslin  as  the  bodice.  Her 
crinoline  was  enormous,  but  well  off  the  ground.  This 
exposed  to  view,  when  she  walked,  a  pair  of  neat  black 
brodequins  rising  above  the  ankle  and  the  inevitable 
white  stockings  beyond  the  rims  of  the  boots.  She 
wore  dark  blue  kid  gloves  with  one  button,  and  carried 
a  minute  blue  silk  parasol. 

Ugly  as  her  costume  and  her  shape  would  have 
seemed  to  our  eyes  in  these  later  days,  she  appeared 
very  stylishly  dressed  for  1864,  much  smarter,  "  lavee 


i6  THE  VENEERINGS 

de  sa  province."  She  had  learnt  a  good  deal  from  a 
year  in  France  and  a  little  prosperity :  not  only  to  speak 
French — after  a  fashion  and  still  with  a  horrible 
accent — but  how  to  make  up  her  complexion  artisti- 
cally, how  to  corset  herself,  what  to  eat  and  drink,  how 
to  make  a  salad,  and  generally  how  to  make  the  best 
of  everything,  including  her  personal  appearance. 

Veneering  was  obviously  impressed  by  the  change 
which  had  come  over  this  pair  of  adventurers  and  the 
assurance  of  manner  they  had  gained  by  having  money 
to  pay  their  way.  He  was  humble  with  them:  felt 
badly  shaved,  badly  dressed,  and  quite  at  sea  over  the 
eating,  with  only  one  fork  and  one  knife,  of  this  elab- 
orate dejeuner  (for  which  Mrs.  Lammle  paid). 

"  And  now,  Veneering,"  said  Sophronia,  over  her 
chasse-cafe,  while  Alfred  and  their  guest  lit  cigars,  "  if 
we  are  to  help  you,  you  must  tell  us  precisely  what 
your  circumstances  and  your  resources  are." 

Veneering  gave  a  summary,  purposely  understating 
the  total  amount  at  his  disposal,  in  case  his  rescuers 
wanted  too  large  a  commission.  He  added  that  he 
had  got  about  three  hundred  pounds  in  ready  money 
to  carry  on  with,  till  arrangements  could  be  made  for 
the  transfer  to  a  bank  in  Calais  of  Anastasia's  divi- 
dends, and  until  they  realised  the  proceeds  from  the 
sale  of  her  jewellery. 

"  Then,"  said  Sophronia,  "  you  and  Alfred  shall 
start  at  once  for  Brussels  and  Amsterdam  to  sell  the 
jewellery;  and  whilst  you  are  away  your  wife  and  I 
will  endeavour  to  find  a  suitable  house  and  furnish  it. 
Gargong!  Donnay  mwaw  1'addissiong." 


CHAPTER  II 

JOHN    HARMON 

MRS.  VENEERING  wept  a  good  deal  at  parting 
with  her  superb  rings,  bracelets,  brooches,  neck- 
lets, buckles,  lockets,  and  watches;  but  inclined  her 
head  before  the  inevitable.  "  I'll  give  you  better  things 
some  day,  when  our  affairs  get  right  again,"  said  her 
husband,  who  was  not  an  unkindly  man. 

Yet  the  prospect  of  house-hunting  and  shopping  with 
Sophronia — who  was,  after  all,  a  link  with  their  showy 
life  in  Brompton — soon  cheered  her  up,  though  Mrs. 
Lammle  now  took  command  and  snubbed  sentimen- 
tality and  withered  pretence.  "If  we  are  to  see  much 
of  one  another,"  she  said,  "  we  must  do  something 
about  our  Christian  names,  or  my  jaws  will  ache  at 
saying  '  Anastasia '  every  few  minutes.  ...  I  shall 
call  you  either  *  Annie  '  or  '  Stacy,'  and  you  can  call 
me  Sophie,  as  I've  told  Alfred  to  do." 

"  Dear  Papa  used  to  tell  me  my  name  meant  '  a 
resurrection,'  "  said  Mrs.  Veneering  with  watering 
eyes.  "  Dear  Mama  died  soon  after  I  was  born. 
Ah!  Sophronia — I  mean  Sophie — I  never  knew  a 
mother's  care!"  (tears  again).  .  .  . 

"  Well,  I  did,  till  I  was  fourteen.  I  can't  say  it 
made  life  much  easier,  or  that  I  admired  her  kind  of 
bringing  up.  But  we've  no  time  to  waste  over  senti- 
mental recollections.  I've  hired  a  carriage  for  the 
day — at  your  expense — and  I've  got  an  order  to  view 
a  house  which  seems  suitable ;  the  rent  asked  is  a  thou- 
sand francs  a  year.  .  .  ." 

17 


i8  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  My  dear!  "  screamed  Anastasia.  "  We  couldn't 
possibly.  ..." 

"Nonsense!  A  thousand  francs  is  only  forty 
pounds.  There  is  said  to  be  a  good  garden,  and  you 
could  grow  your  own  vegetables  and  fruit  and  keep 
fowls.  We  can  but  go  and  see  it." 

They  went.  After  half  an  hour's  consideration, 
Anastasia,  on  Sophie's  advice,  closed  with  the  agent 
(who  happened  to  be  there  to  meet  them)  and  took  it 
on  a  yearly  agreement;  Sophie,  who  conducted  the 
negotiations,  having  insisted  that  nothing  was  to  be 
asked  for  fixtures  in  consideration  of  a  half-year's 
rent  being  paid  in  advance,  and  immediate  possession 
being  granted. 

The  house,  "  Villa  les  Acacias,"  stood  by  itself,  a 
mile  to  the  west  of  the  last  houses  of  the  town,  the 
intervening  ground  being  a  rather  desolate  waste, 
with  a  canal  passing  through  it.  The  large  garden 
was  enclosed  within  a  brick  wall,  and  there  was  a 
small  field  beyond  the  garden,  demarcated  by  a  rough 
paling.  In  the  front  garden  were  two  large  Robinia 
trees  to  justify  the  name  of  the  villa,  and  a  handsome 
catalpa.  Facing  the  carriage  sweep  and  entrance  was 
a  cracked  marble  basin ;  and  a  dejected-looking,  green- 
ish statute  of  a  boy  wrestling  with  a  dolphin  masked  a 
fountain  which  had  once  played  and  refreshed  the 
goldfish  in  the  basin.  The  aspect  of  the  house  seemed 
sinister  to  Anastasia,  who  entered  it  with  a  little  shud- 
der; mainly  because  its  windows  were  concealed  by 
closed  sun-shutters  of  a  dull  brown.  Inside,  it  had  a 
queer  smell — a  mixture  of  bad  drains,  fustiness,  ac- 
cumulated dust,  exhausted  air,  the  presence  of  mice, 
and  the  mould  and  damp  of  fireless  winters  when  the 
house  had  been  unoccupied;  for  the  owner  of  it  was 
said  to  be  a  heart-broken  widower  "  longtemps  en 
voyage,  Madame,  depuis  la  mort  de  sa  femme." 

The  sanitary  arrangements  would,  of  course,  have 


JOHN  HARMON  19 

shocked  a  house-seeker  in  the  twentieth  century;  but 
only  appeared  to  these  women  in  the  'sixties  a  little 
worse  than  those  they  were  accustomed  to.  Mrs. 
Veneering,  on  the  other  hand,  was  delighted  with  the 
drawing-room  and  the  conservatory  opening  out  of  it, 
with  the  kitchen  and  scullery;  and  the  back  garden, 
though  utterly  run  to  seed  and  tangle  and  disrepair, 
and  suffering  from  the  summer  drought  and  the  au- 
tumn untidiness,  had  great  possibilities.  The  walls 
had  espalier  pear  trees  loaded  with  fine  fruit.  To  the 
children  it  was  soon  to  seem  a  paradise. 

The  question  of  domicile  and  immediate  possession 
being  thus  settled,  it  only  remained  to  engage  white- 
washers  and  paperhangers,  carpenters  and  plumbers, 
to  do  a  little  necessary  cleaning,  adornment,  and  re- 
pairs. The  agent  suggested  a  firm.  Also  a  notary 
who  would  transact  the  necessary  formalities.  Visits 
next  followed  to  furniture  shops.  Thrilling  bargains 
were  achieved  under  Sophie's  bold  manner,  slightly 
insolent  self-confidence,  and  fluent  British-French. 
By  the  time  "  the  gentlemen,"  as  Mrs.  Veneering  al- 
ways phrased  it — were  returned  from  their  long  visit 
to  the  diamond  merchants  and  jewellery  firms  of  Bel- 
gium and  Holland — an  excursion  which  included  a 
visit  to  Spa,  where  they  gambled  as  much  as  the  regu- 
lations permitted,  and  much  "  seeing  of  life "  for 
Hamilton  Veneering,  under  the  guidance  of  his 
Mephistopheles — Mrs.  Veneering  and  her  devoted 
Sophia  had  Villa  les  Acacias  ready  as  a  very  pre- 
sentable home,  with  the  fountain  repaired  and  play- 
ing, and  a  bonne-d-tout-faire  engaged  at  an  equivalent 
of  £18  a  year  to  cook  and  do  much  of  the  house  work, 
a  gardener  to  reduce  the  garden  to  order  and  assist 
the  cook  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Veneering  would  have  to 
attend  to  the  children :  "  It'll  give  you  something  to 
think  of,"  Sophronia  had  said. 

But  Anastasia  was,  in  spite  of  nursery  work  and 


20  THE  VENEERINGS 

much  to  do  in  the  house,  beginning  to  think  herself 
actually  happier  than  when  she  was  the  mistress  of  a 
fine  establishment  in  Stucconia.  Latterly,  although 
she  left  all  business  affairs  to  her  husband,  she  had 
been  anxious  about  money.  Household  bills  were 
mounting  up,  and  Hamilton  always  postponed  paying 
them  till  tradespeople  began  to  dun;  and  they  got  be- 
hindhand with  the  servants'  wages,  who  consequently 
became  insolent.  The  air  of  London  did  not  agree 
with  her,  who  had  been  brought  up  at  Blackheath  and 
Chiselhurst.  Already  she  felt  better  for  wind-blown 
Calais  and  a  semi-country  life.  She  enjoyed  the  care 
of  her  poultry;  the  children  were  good  and  obedient, 
and  so  enraptured  with  the  large  garden,  its  hiding 
places  and  rambling  outbuildings,  the  acquisition  of  a 
house-dog  of  the  typical  mongrel,  affectionate  type, 
that  they  gave  her  little  trouble  between  their  getting 
up  in  the  morning  and  their  going  to  bed  at  night. 
She  was  also  glad  to  rest  and  to  live  very  quietly,  be- 
cause she  knew  that  another  child  was  on  its  way,  and 
that  she  would  be  confined  again  somewhere  about 
Christmas  time. 

She  did,  it  is  true,  feel  a  little  lonely  and  chagrined 
when  Hamilton  departed  in  October  with  the  Lammles 
to  carry  out  some  scheme  they  had  planned,  and 
stayed  away  all  November.  But  she  gathered  from 
his  occasional  letters  that  the  scheme  was  bringing  in 
money.  He  had  come  to  a  sort  of  understanding  with 
her  that  the  Calais  house  and  household  were  to  be 
run  on  her  four  hundred  a  year,  and  that  she  was  to 
let  him  use  the  other  half  of  their  income — that  which 
would  arise  from  the  sale  of  her  jewellery — for  his 
own  ventures  and  expenses. 

Lammle  had  certainly  aided  him  in  disposing  of  the 
gold  and  precious  stones  at  a  good  valuation;  but  in 
return  for  his  services  had  insisted  on  the  payment  of 
a  hundred  pounds  to  himself  by  way  of  commission 


JOHN  HARMON  21 

and  cost  of  travelling,  and  the  contribution  by  Ve- 
neering of  another  five  hundred  pounds  to  a  fund 
which  the  Lammles  were  setting  aside  for  a  flutter  at 
Badden-Baden  and  a  further  venture  which  might 
lead  them  to  Paris.  The  actual  cash,  therefore,  which 
Veneering  had  realised  by  the  sale  of  his  wife's  adorn- 
ments did  not  come  to  much  more  than  £7,000.  This 
amount,  invested  in  French  securities,  would  bring  in 
about  £300  a  year. 

The  weather  after  Christmas  became  as  bitterly  cold 
as  it  can  be  in  north-east  France.  And  the  Flemish 
stoves,  burning  charcoal  or  wood,  did  not  warm — they 
thought — like  a  good  English  coal-fire  in  an  open 
grate.  The  English  chaplain  called  on  them,  after 
having  seen  Mrs.  Veneering  once  or  twice  at  church, 
and  suggested  a  subscription  to  St.  Michael's  building 
fund,  which  Veneering  gave — rather  reluctantly.  The 
Veneerings  tried  to  convey,  with  vague  statements, 
the  idea  that  they  had  taken  refuge  on  the  French  side 
of  the  Channel  for  health  rather  than  for  financial 
reasons,  and  also  for  the  future  education  of  their 
children.  "  It  is  so  important,  don't  you  think,  Mr. 
— Mr. — Diver,  that  these  dear  little  souls  should  ac- 
quire French  when  they  are  quite  young?  "  said  Anas- 
tasia,  coming  to  her  husband's  support.  "  I  am  sure 
dear  Papa  spared  no  expense  on  my  education,  and  I 
went  to  a  very  expensive  school  at  Blackheath;  but 
although  I  mastered  French  grammar  and  all  those 
irregular  verbs,  and  could  write  quite  a  good  letter  in 
French  before  I  left  school,  I  haven't  yet  got  into  the 
way  of  speaking  it  or  understanding  easily  what  the 
common  people  say.  I'm  sure  the  trouble  I  have  with 
my  servants  here !  " 

But  the  Revd.  Mr.  Diver,  having  got  his  subscrip- 
tion, was  cold  and  non-cornmittal,  and  probably  knew 
all  about  the  Veneerings  and  the  Lammles.  Mrs. 
Diver  had  excused  herself  from  accompanying  her 


22  THE  VENEERINGS 

husband  on  the  plea  of  a  cold,  and  never  repaired  the 
omission  or  recognised  Mrs.  Veneering  at  any  of  the 
local  fetes.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Catholic  priest  of 
the  local  French  church  soon  got  into  conversation 
with  them  out  of  doors,  and  came  to  see  them  unin- 
vited, attracted  by  the  faces  of  their  children.  Mrs. 
Veneering  instinctively  turned  to  him  for  counsel  and 
sympathy.  He  spoke  English  with  a  strong  Irish  ac- 
cent, being  partly  of  Irish  descent,  and  having  once 
been  resident  in  Ireland  on  some  religious  business 
connected  with  the  Irish  Catholic  students  at  Louvain 
and  Arras. 

In  January,  the  expected  baby  was  born — a  boy. 
Mrs.  Veneering,  who  had  been  reading  Tennyson's 
Idylls  of  the  King,  to  wile  away  home-sickness — for 
she  had  occasional  regrets  for  the  Brompton  estab- 
lishment, with  its  butler  and  footman,  its  professed 
cook,  obsequious  maids,  its  carriage  and  pair  and  sub- 
stantial meals,  and  sensation  of  being  in  the  middle 
of  everything  that  was  going  on — named  the  new- 
comer "  Lancelot,"  hoping  he  would  grow  up  a  knightly 
character  who  would  fight  his  mother's  battles  and 
lift  his  parents  back  into  respectability. 

In  the  following  March  her  husband  was  getting 
restless  and  bored,  and  did  not  seem  overjoyed  at  an 
addition  to  his  family.  He  decided  to  go  off  with  the 
Lammles  to  the  newly-established  gambling-rooms  at 
a  bathing  resort  on  the  outskirts  of  Monaco — Monte 
Carlo,  it  had  just  been  called.  The  season  was  a  little 
early  for  Baden-Baden  or  Homburg,  and  Alfred 
Lammle  wanted  to  try  his  hand  at  pigeon  shooting, 
besides  fancying  they  might  meet,  in  the  metaphorical 
sense,  pigeons  to  be  plucked  in  this  unsophisticated 
little  principality. 

So  Anastasia  was  aione,  except  for  her  children, 
one  sunny  morning  in  April,  when  the  bonne-a-tout- 


JOHN  HARMON  23 

faire  came  out  into  the  untidy  garden  to  say  there  was 
a  "  monsieur  anglais  dans  le  salon,  tres  comme  il  faut 
et  qui  sait  parler  frangais."  "  II  m'a  passe  sa  carte 
en  demandant  des  nouvelles  de  Monsieur.  Je  lui  ai  dit 
que  Monsieur  etait  en  voyage  pour  les  affaires,  mais 

que  Madame "     "It's  Mr.  Harmon!"  exclaimed 

Anastasia.  "  Well,  I  never.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  in 
this  shabby  old  morning  gown?" 

As  there  was  no  one  present  who  could  understand 
the  purport  of  these  remarks,  she  might  have  lost  fur- 
ther time  in  perplexity,  had  not  John  Harmon  very 
sensibly  followed  the  French  servant  out  into  the  gar- 
den and  advanced  to  the  little  group. 

"  Please  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  for  calling  at  such 
an  unorthodox  hour,  but  I  crossed  from  Dover  in  the 
night,  and  thought  I  might  find  Mr.  Veneering  at 
home  at  this  time  of  the  day.  I  wanted  a  little  con- 
versation with  him  about  his  Mincing  Lane  business. 
Your  servant,  however,  says  he  is  away  from  home, 
on  a  journey " 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is — with  some  friends  of  ours — the 
Lammles — oh,  dear! — I  feel  quite — quite — I  mean, 
hardly  myself  at  the  sight  of  your  name — I  don't  think 
you  ever  dined  with  us  in  the  happy  old  days,  when 
you — er — lived  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boffin?  .  .  .  But 
we  had  the  pleasure  several  times  of  entertaining  Mrs. 
Harmon  when  she  was  Miss  Wilfer.  .  .  .  Won't  you 
stay  a  little  while  and  give  us  news  of  our  friends  in 
England?  We  will  go  into  the  house — I  am  afraid 
my  drawing-room  is  rather  dusty  .  .  .  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult, with  only  one  servant.  There,  baby  .  .  .  mustn't 
cry  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  he  will  disturb  us,  but  I  daren't 
leave  him,  and,  although  the  other  two  children  are 
as  good  as  gold,  they  are  too  young  to  look  after  him, 
and  Julie  at  this  moment  is  attending  to  what  she  calls 
breakfast,  though  it  is  really  our  lunch.  May  I  ask 


24  THE  VENEERINGS 

you  to  stay  and  share  it  with  us?    No?    Then  a  glass 
of  wine  and  a  biscuit?  " 

Out  of  civility,  John  Harmon  accepted,  explaining 
that  he  must  presently  return  to  the  railway  station 
to  continue  an  interrupted  journey  to  Brussels  and 
Ghent. 

"  I  got  your  address  from  the  Mincing  Lane  house. 
It  still  carries  on  business;  largely  with  the  help  of 
my  father-in-law,  Wilfer;  for  your  husband's  part- 
ner, Mr.  Stobbles,  though  very  good  in  some  ways — 
about  the  properties  of  drugs,  I  mean — is  not  a  good 
man  of  affairs.  What  I  chiefly  came  to  say  to  Mr. 
Veneering  was  this:  I  should  like  him  to  give  me  a 
statement  as  to  his  liabilities  and  assets — could  you 
write  the  exact  words  down?  I  can  hold  baby  while 
you  do  so.  ...  Oh,  I  am  quite  a  family  man  .  .  . 
got  a  little  girl,  now,  of  my  own — his  liabilities  and 
assets  and  any  ideas  he  might  have  as  to  the  future  of 
the  drug  business.  If  he  would  repose  this  amount  of 
confidence  in  me,  I  might — it  is  just  possible  I  might 
— be  able  to  set  him  on  his  feet  again,  at  any  rate, 
arrive  at  some  understanding  with  his  creditors  which 
would  enable  him  to  return  to  England  without  fear 
of  any  proceedings.  Have  you  got  that  noted  down? 
Then  here's  baby  back  again,  none  the  worse  for  the 
transfer." 

"  Indeed,  it  is  wonderful,"  exclaimed  the  grateful 
Anastasia.  "  He  usually  cries  if  I  give  him  up  to  any 
one,  even  Julie.  ...  I  am  to  give  this  message  to  my 
husband?  But  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  see  him. 
.  .  .  He's  gone  off  with  the  Lammles  to  the  South  of 
France,  to  some  new  bathing  resort " 

"  Indeed !  That's  bad.  From  all  I  have  heard  I 
should  very  much  distrust  the  Lammles,  at  any  rate, 
the  husband.  He  came  to  grief  the  year  before  last 
by  speculating.  .  .  .  Let  me  see;  they  were  married 


JOHN  HARMON  25 

from  your  house,  weren't  they?  Bella  used  to  give  a 
very  amusing  account  of  them,  though  she  never  could 
forgive  the  wife  for  writing  a  ridiculous  letter  about 
me  to  Mr.  Boffin !  However,  as  that  helped  to  bring 
us  together  /  forgave  Mrs.  Lammle.  It  was  more  the 
husband  I  objected  to " 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  poor  Mr.  Lammle  who  is  so 
much  to  blame,"  said  Anastasia ;  "  it  is  Sophie  Lammle 
I  am  beginning  to  distrust.  Yes,  they  met  for  the 
first  time  at  our  house.  Hamilton  had  known  Sophie's 
father  at  Harrogate,  and  when  the  father  died  he 
wanted  to  be  kind  to  the  daughter,  so  I  asked  her  to 
come  and  stay  and  see  something  of  the  London  sea- 
son. .  .  .  And  so  she  met  Alfred,  and  they  were  mar- 
ried. But  you  have  no  idea  what  a  change  has  come 
over  them  since  they  came  to  France.  They  seem 
much  more  prosperous — in  fact,  they've  got  very  nice 
rooms  in  the  town,  furnished  with  great  taste,  and  Mr. 
Lammle  is  looked  upon  as  quite  an  authority  on  sport. 
But  Sophie — she  objects  now  to  be  called  Sophronia 
— has  become  so  masterful — she  is  quite  different  to 
the  Sophronia  Akershem  I  first  asked  to  stay  five  years 
ago.  .  .  .  She  and  Alfred  have  got  up  some  wonderful 
scheme  for  making  money — it  is  too  complicated  for 
me  to  understand,  and  it  seems  that  Hamilton  is  mixed 
up  in  it.  I  am  sure  he  would  not  connect  himself 
with  anything  that  wasn't  quite  honourable.  He  does 
so  want,  poor  fellow ! — to  get  rich  somehow,  and  pay 
all  he  owes,  and  once  more  settle  down  in  London." 

"  Well,  all  the  same,  you  can  tell  him  from  me  he 
had  much  better  stick  to  the  old  drug  business  and 
compound  with  his  creditors.  You  know  my  address 
in  Wigmore  Street,  Cavendish  Square  ?  You  used  to 
call  there  on  the  Boffins  every  now  and  again."  (Mrs. 
Veneering  sighed  theatrically.)  "Well,  when  your 
husband  returns,  ask  him  to  write  to  me  frankly  about 


26  THE  VENEERINGS 

his  affairs,  and  I  will  see  how  far  I  can  help  him.  I 
particularly  want  to  know  about  those  plantations  of 
cinchona  in  Mysore.  You'll  remember  the  word, 
'  cinchona  ?  ' — quinine,  don't  you  know.  .  .  .  Hullo ! 
Is  this  the  rest  of  the  family?  " 

Joanna  and  Melvin,  unable  any  longer  to  resist  their 
curiosity  as  to  the  gentleman  visitor,  who  spoke  Eng- 
lish, but  who  was  not  Papa,  had  pushed  open  the  door 
of  the  salon  and  stood  silently  regarding  John  Harmon. 
They  were  both  rather  grubby  as  to  hands  and  face, 
because  they  had  been  "  helping  "  the  gardener,  and 
their  pinafores  were  dirty,  and  their  noses,  with  some 
spring  catarrh,  badly  wanted  wiping.  But  they  had 
attractive  faces,  and  John  Harmon,  who  had  a  tender 
heart  and  a  rare  sympathy  with  neglected  children, 
smiled  at  them  and  produced  from  his  pocket  a  five- 
franc  piece  .  .  .  which  he  duly  presented  to  Joanna, 
saying  it  was  to  buy  sweetmeats  for  herself  and  her 
brother. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Veneering,  overflowing  with 
thanks  and  dropping  a  tear  or  two.  "  This  is  Joanna, 
though  we  call  her  Jeanne  now;  I  think  it  sounds 
prettier  ...  in  French.  She  was  named  after  a  once 
dear  friend  of  ours,  her  godfather,  Mr.  John  Podsnap 
— I'm  afraid  the  Podsnaps  think  very  badly  of  us 
now!  If  you  ever  meet  him." — (Harmon  ejaculated: 
"Not  //  Can't  bear  the  pompous  ass.") — "you 
might  explain  how  resolved  poor  Hamilton  is  to  make 
everything  right.  And  this  is  little  Melvin — two  and 
a  half  years  old.  He  was  named  after  another  of  our 
friends — I  think  you  know  him?  Mr.  Twemlow. 
.  .  .  And,  now  darlings,  you  should  thank  this  kind 
gentleman " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,"  said  Harmon.  "  And  what 
is  more,  I  had  better  go  out  and  see  my  cocker  has  not 
lost  patience  and  driven  away;  if  so,  I  shall  lose  my 
train  to  Brussels,  where  I  stop  to-night " 


JOHN  HARMON  27 

John  Harmon — at  this  time  about  thirty- four  years 
of  age — was  a  man  of  sound  business  instincts  and 
yet  of  great  kindness  of  heart.  He  had  had  a  rather 
unhappy  boyhood,  much  of  which  had  been  spent  at 
school  in  Brussels.  Or,  rather,  his  schooldays  had 
been  happy;  it  was  his  episodes  of  life  with  his  father 
in  a  dreary  part  of  London  near  Camden  Town,  now 
covered  with  depots  of  the  Midland  and  Great  North- 
ern Railways,  which  had  given  such  an  intense  melan- 
choly to  his  early  jife  and  led  to  his  running  away  to 
sea  and  eventually  drifting  to  Cape  Colony.  Here  in 
early  manhood  he  had  soon  made  good.  A  kindly 
Dutch  colonist  had  taken  him  on  as  an  assistant  on  a 
vine-growing  estate.  During  his  school  life  in  Brus- 
sels he  had  learnt  not  only  French,  but  also  Flem- 
ish, and  this  enabled  him  very  soon  to  speak  fluently 
the  Taal  of  Dutch  South  Africa  and  to  transact  busi- 
ness profitably  with  the  Dutch  settlers. 

Then  his  father  had  died,  and  he  had,  after  a  year 
or  two's  mystification,  which  he  had  carried  out  for 
quixotic  purposes,  come  into  a  large  fortune — rumour 
said,  when  all  was  realised,  about  £200,000 — and  had 
married  at  the  same  time  a  charming  woman.  The 
melancholy  of  his  boyhood  had  passed  through  sev- 
eral years  of  happiness  into  a  deep  sympathy  with 
misfortune  wherever  it  was  to  be  found,  and  he  had 
specially  devoted  himself  to  redressing  wrongs  and 
establishing  rights  in  the  circle  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances with  whom  he  had  come  into  contact,  through  his 
courtship  of  his  wife  and  his  happy  marriage. 

For  he  had  no  traceable  relations  of  his  own,  or 
none  who  brought  themselves  to  his  knowledge.  His 
mother  had  been  a  governess  in  a  Highgate  family. 
In  her  walks  with  her  pupils  about  the  fields  of  Hollo- 
way  she  had  attracted  the  attention  of  John  Harmon's 
father,  a  man  of  middle  age,  hitherto  so  preoccupied 
with  acquiring  wealth  that  he  had  no  time  to  think 


28  THE  VENEERINGS 

about  marriage.  But  he  now  wanted  heirs  to  the  for- 
tune he  was  building  up ;  this  meek-looking  governess 
should  prove  a  submissive  wife.  He  proposed  to  her 
abruptly,  following  on  a  slight  acquaintance ;  and  after 
refusing  him  once  (for  which  he  made  her  pay  dearly 
in  her  married  life),  she  accepted  him  as  an  alternative 
to  drudgery  and  semi-starvation. 

In  later  years,  on  his  return  from  Africa,  John 
Harmon  found,  by  consulting  the  marriage  register 
at  the  Camden  Town  church,  that  his  mother's  maiden 
name  had  been  Stansfield,  and  the  status  of  her  father 
that  of  "  an  officer  in  His  Majesty's  Army."  Only 
that  much  he  knew,  for  his  irascible  and  hard-natured 
father,  when  his  mother  was  dead,  had  destroyed  her 
letters  and  such  relics  of  her  family  as  she  might  have 
preserved. 

His  father's  father  had  seemingly  been  a  carrier  or 
carter  at  Tewkesbury,  who,  after  making  many  jour- 
neys on  the  road  between  Gloucester  and  London,  be- 
came entangled  in  London  with  canal  construction  as 
a  navvy  or  a  carter.  His  son — John  Harmon's  father 
— inherited  the  fine  physique  and  good  looks  of  the 
Gloucestershire  peasant,  but  had  somehow  absorbed 
flint  and  sand  and  clinkers  into  his  constitution.  He 
grew  up  close-fisted,  opinionated,  and  a  hard  bargainer. 
But  he  founded  a  lucrative  business  as  a  contractor 
for  the  removal  of  dust,  soil  from  the  railway  cuttings, 
rubbish,  and  refuse  which  he  incinerated  for  manure. 
He  had  acquired  for  two  or  three  thousand  pounds 
waste  lands — ruined  market  gardens,  bankrupt  brick- 
fields— in  the  blighted  regions  between  the  Euston 
Road,  Camden  Town,  and  Holloway.  This  land,  at 
the  time  of  his  death,  had  become  of  immense  po- 
tential value  for  building  purposes  and  railway  sidings. 

In  the  middle  of  the  waste  ground  where  the  father 
dumped  his  dust  in  huge  mounds  was  the  shell  of  an 
old  Elizabethan  country  house  which,  by  means  of 


JOHN  HARMON  29 

some  ugly  and  incongruous  repairs,  had  been  made 
habitable.  At  any  rate,  it  was  the  home  to  which  the 
poor  young  wife  was  brought,  and  the  place  where 
John  Harmon  and  his  sister  were  born.  In  the  neigh- 
bourhood it  was  known  as  "  Harmony  Jail,"  partly 
out  of  irony  for  the  absence  of  harmony  in  Mr.  Har- 
mon's relations  with  his  unhappy  wife — of  whom  he 
was  almost  crazily  jealous — and  partly  because  it  sug- 
gested truly  enough  in  its  appearance  and  setting  the 
sequestered  life  led  by  Mrs.  Harmon,  till  an  early 
death  released  her  from  a  tyrannical  husband. 

John  Harmon's  thoughts,  after  he  left  Mrs.  Veneer- 
ing at  Villa  les  Acacias,  were  ranging  over  this  period 
of  his  youth — the  dreary  home  at  Battle  Bridge  and 
the  presence  there  of  a  father  whom  he  hated  and 
feared — and  he  continued  to  dwell  on  this  subject 
till  his  arrival  in  Ghent,  where  he  was  to  visit  a  great 
drug  manufactory  and  some  botanical  gardens  indi- 
rectly connected  with  the  drug  business.  One  of  the 
few  reasonable  things  his  father  had  done  after  his 
mother's  death,  was  to  send  him  to  a  school  on  the 
outskirts  of  Brussels  where  he  would  be  well  grounded 
in  French  and  German  and  be  inducted  into  chemistry 
and  other  practical  sciences.  And  he  wanted  to  re- 
visit the  precincts  of  this  school — not  necessarily  to 
make  himself  known  to  any  who  might  remember  him 
— that  might  lead  to  boring  conversations  and  effusive 
congratulations — but  just  to  greet  the  ghost  of  his 
dead  self  of  twenty  years  ago,  a  studious  boy  who 
hungered  for  affection  and  found  it  not,  and  who  yet 
resolved  that  if  ever  he  made  his  way  in  the  world 
and  became  a  rich  man,  his  greatest  pleasure  should 
lie  in  making  other  people  happy — because  he  had 
been  so  unhappy  himself. 

It  was  here,  at  this  school,  that  he  had  heard  of  his 
sister's  death,  not  long  after  her  runaway  marriage. 


30  THE  VENEERINGS 

It  was  a  blustering  day  in  March,  1845.  The  news 
had  come  from  her  young  husband.  He  remembered 
how  he  had  gone  impulsively,  shaken  with  sobs,  to  the 
master  he  liked  best,  had  said  he  must  return  home 
owing  to  a  bereavement,  how  his  saved  and  accumu- 
lated pocket  money  only  amounted  to  about  fourteen 
francs,  and  the  cost  of  a  ticket  to  London  was  there- 
fore beyond  him ;  how  the  master,  after  a  conference 
with  the  principal,  had  somehow  raised  the  necessary 
forty  francs — had  he  ever  repaid  him?  He  feared 
not;  and  probably  his  angry  father  had  repudiated  the 
debt;  since,  when  he  did  reach  home  and  reproached 
the  cruel  old  man  for  being  the  cause  of  his  sister's 
death,  he  was  flung  into  the  street  and  told  to  go  to  the 
Devil  by  the  quickest  route.  .  .  .  And  had,  indeed, 
stumbled  half  blindly  towards  the  Thames  with 
thoughts  either  of  drowning  himself  or  of  taking  any 
berth  he  could  get — cabin  boy,  under  steward,  deck 
hand — which  might  remove  him  from  horrible  Lon- 
don and  a  half -insane  parent.  And  then,  wonderful 
strokes  of  good  fortune  that  had  followed  and  filled 
up  the  succeeding  fourteen  years  before  he  came  into 
his  inheritance  and  found  himself  a  very  rich  man. 

But  when,  after  several  blunders  in  direction — for 
Brussels  had  altered  much  in  twenty  years — he  found 
himself  where  the  old  school  buildings  had  stood,  lo! 
there  was  a  brewery  in  their  place.  So  there  was  no 
master  to  be  sought  out  and  repaid — with  interest,  for 
the  school  funds — that  matter  of  forty  francs.  There- 
fore, he  turned  back — perhaps  a  little  relieved  at  being 
absolved  from  explanations  and  autobiography;  and 
having  written  a  few  lines  to  Bella,  and  changed  his 
dress  for  an  early  dinner,  he  had  gone  to  the  Theatre 
de  la  Monnaie  to  see  Offenbach's  light  opera,  La  Belle 
Helene,  over  which  he  laughed  heartily,  though  the 
rapidly  sung  and  spoken  French  was  only  partially 
comprehensible.  Twenty  years'  absence  on  the  high 


JOHN  HARMON  31 

seas,  in  South  Africa,  and  latterly  in  England,  had 
played  havoc  with  his  French;  but  his  expertness  in 
the  Dutch  of  South  Africa  enabled  him  to  understand 
and  speak  Flemish  to  a  degree  that  astonished  the  Bel- 
gians, and  certainly  obtained  for  him  information  at 
Ghent,  at  Leyden,  and  Amsterdam,  from  Dutch  and 
Flemish  botanists,  chemists,  and  drug  manufacturers 
which  no  single-languaged  Englishman  would  have 
received. 

There  was  forming  in  his  mind  the  resolve  to  take 
up  Veneering's  firm  and  push  it  to  far  greater  develop- 
ments in  the  discovery  and  preparation  of  new  drugs 
than  any  of  its  partners  had  conceived.  Not  only 
might  he  thus  render  great  services  to  humanity  in 
combating  disease;  but  with  mankind's  passion  for 
trying  remedies  to  combat  its  ills  of  the  flesh  and  mind, 
a  great  drug  business  should  be — as  Veneering  himself 
had  thought  before  he  deteriorated — the  certain  road 
to  wealth. 

The  income  he  derived  from  his  invested  fortune 
brought  him  over  £7,000  a  year.  But  this  would  go 
only  a  small  way  in  the  benevolences,  subsidies,  and 
salves  for  unhappiness  he  purposed  providing.  If  he 
was  to  disseminate  happiness  on  a  large  scale  he  could 
not  be  too  wealthy;  and  there  was  no  more  praise- 
worthy career  for  acquiring  riches  than  that  of  the 
drug  merchant. 


CHAPTER  III 
SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS 

ON  the  day  when  John  Harmon  was  paying  his  call 
on  Anastasia  Veneering  at  the  Calais  Villa,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lammle  were  walking  back  in  a  leisurely 
manner  from  Nice  to  Condamine,  where  they  had  their 
abode  in  an  old-fashioned  hotel,  the  whole  they  gambled 
and  sported  at  Monte  Carlo.  Hamilton  Veneering  had 
been  told  by  Sophronia  that  he  was  not  to  accompany 
them;  he  had  better  try  his  luck  at  trente-et-quarante. 
So  in  the  morning  they  had  gone  in  by  train  to  Nice, 
had  paid  money  into  their  separate  accounts  at  the 
bank,  and  Sophronia  had  made  a  mysterious  visit  to 
the  Prefecture  de  Police  with  her  veil  down.  Alfred 
had  bought  some  cigars  and  an  English  newspaper 
dealing  with  finance ;  then  they  had  lunched  deliciously 
at  a  restaurant,  and  finally  had  given  ten  francs  to  the 
driver  of  an  open  carriage  to  take  them  beyond  the 
houses  of  Nice  and  its  suburbs  and  put  them  down  on 
the  coast  road  to  Monaco  at  Beaulieu. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lammle  had  felt  the  time  had 
come  for  another  clearing  up  of  mysteries  and  mis- 
understandings between  them,  and  that  this  might  be 
effected  by  returning  on  foot,  without  hurry  and  with 
an  occasional  rest  by  the  way  along  the  lower  road 
which  connects  Nice  with  the  little  principality  of 
Monaco. 

"  This  walk  must  remind  you,"  said  Sophronia, 
"  of  the  one  we  had  at  Shanklin,  four  years  ago  .  .  . 
on  our  honeymoon,  you  remember?  When  we  both 
found  each  other  out  for  the  schemers  and  adven- 

32 


SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS  33 

turers  we  were.  Only  the  circumstances  and  sur- 
roundings are  very  different.  This  coast  is  rather  su- 
perior to  the  Isle  of  Wight  in  scenery,  I  should  fancy, 
and  the  cooking  of  the  Cafe  des  Anglais  is  somewhat 
better  than  it  was  at  the  Shanklin  hotel  .  .  .  and  in- 
stead of  having  only  fifteen  or  sixteen  hundred  pounds 
between  us  and  the  gutter,  we  have  now  more  than 
twice  that  sum.  Also,  I  have  ceased  to  be  afraid  of 
you,  as  I  was  then.  Also,  I  feel  almost  re-born,  a  dif- 
ferent woman,  far  more  sure  of  myself.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  what  she  said.  Though  the  fashions  of 
the  day  for  women  were  hideous  in  shape  and  outline 
and  usually  garish  in  colour,  she  was  well-dressed  and 
not  without  a  certain  individuality  of  taste.  Well 
dressed,  neatly  booted  for  a  dusty  walk,  her  crinoline 
supporting  skirts  swung  well  above  the  road  level.  She 
wore  a  boat-shaped  hat  of  amber-tinted  Leghorn  straw 
with  a  graceful  ostrich  plume  of  dove  colour;  a  dove- 
coloured  veil  shielded  her  well-made-up  complexion 
from  the  glare  of  the  sunlight  and  made  it  look  a 
natural  pink  and  white;  her  parasol  was  of  dove- 
coloured  silk;  her  poplin  dress,  of  the  same  Quaker 
tint,  was  looped  up  with  gilt  cords  over  a  pleated, 
stiff,  white  underskirt,  and  the  belt  round  her  waist 
was  of  gilt  braid.  Her  kid  gloves  were  fawn  colour. 
No  one  would  have  guessed  her  to  be  forty-three  years 
old.  She  needed  no  dye  to  keep  her  black  hair  black, 
no  stimulant  to  make  her  fine  eyes  glow  and  sparkle. 
Her  gorgon  aunt  would  scarcely  have  recognised  in  the 
Sophronia  of  April,  1865,  the  sallow,  thin,  gloomily- 
frowning  spinster  who  had  dawdled  about  the  water 
temples  of  Harrogate  for  twenty  years  in  vain  hope  of 
adventure,  of  wider  horizons,  and  release  from  genteel 
poverty  and  stifling  conventionality. 

Her  husband  at  first  walked  by  her  side  smoking  a 
big  Londres  cigar  and  flicking  the  spring  flowers  with 
his  cane.  A  few  minutes  of  silence  followed  her  open- 


34  THE  VENEERINGS 

ing  remarks.  Then  he  said  with  a  certain  angry 
bluster : 

"  You  may  have  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  me — you 
talk,  by  the  bye,  as  though  I  were  a  possible  assassin 
.  .  .  we  have  been  married  now  nearly  four  years.  I 
don't  think  during  all  that  time  I  have  once  raised  my 
hand  ...  or  foot  .  .  .  against  you,  though  I  have 
sometimes  been  sorely  tempted  to  do  so.  But  I  have 
had  a  better  control  over  my  temper  than  you  .  .  . 
and  I  arn  going  to  try  to  keep  that  command  of  my- 
self, though  I  should  not  advise  you  to  try  me  too  far. 
.  .  .  You  are  unfaithful  to  me  with  that  plausible  hum- 
bug, Veneering.  If  I  really  cared  about  you  I  would 
have  shot  him  after  I  saw  him  coming  out  of  your 
room  at  the  hotel  the  other  morning  at  3  a.m.,  but " 

"  But  you  were  probably  too  tipsy  to  aim  straight, 
and  as  to  three  a.m.,  you  had  most  likely  been  indulg- 
ing in  some  low  amour  of  your  own  to  be  returning 
at  that  hour." 

"  Not  //  Gambling  and  love-making  don't  go  to- 
gether. I'd  been  playing  ecarte  at  Douglas  Williams's 
rooms  and  had  rooked  him  pretty  well.  .  .  .  But, 
look  here,  I'm  not  going  to  be  made  a  laughing-stock 
before  these  damned  foreigners — what  they  call  over 
here  '  Cockoo." 

"  Heavens !  What  an  accent !  I  suppose  you  mean 
*  cocu  '  ?  Here,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  walk  on  the 
other  side  of  you,  to  the  left;  otherwise,  skirting  this 
precipice  might  prove  too  strong  a  temptation  to  you. 
though  1  cannot  see  what  you  would  gain  by  my  death 
or  the  breaking  of  our  partnership.  /  don't  interfere 
with  your  personal  liberty:  don't  you  interfere  with 
mine.  I  only  advise  from  time  to  time  about  what 
people  are  saying,  because  I  don't  want  you  to  get  into 
trouble,  and  you  are  sometimes  very  reckless,  in  your 
own  way.  ...  I  suppose  you  would  say  that  is  all 
you  are  doing  by  me  ?  In  such  case,  I  take  it  in  good 


SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS  35 

part.  7  don't  want  to  compromise  myself  with  Hamil- 
ton. I  may  as  well  tell  you,  however,  to  explain  things, 
that  there  was  an  intimacy  between  us  for  some  weeks, 
years  ago  at  Harrogate,  before  he  married  Annie  Ve- 
neering. After  he  had  married  her  he  wanted  to  live 
respectably,  and  so,  when  I  turned  up  again,  he  pushed 
me  into  your  arms.  .  .  .  '  Mais  Ton  revient  tou jours 
a  ses  premiers  amours  .  .  .  ! ' 

"  I  guessed  as  much  ...  on  our  honeymoon." 
"  Well,  and  what  was  our  compact  then  ?  That 
somehow  we  would  pay  Veneering  back.  And  we're 
doing  so.  The  seven  thousand  pounds  he  realised  out 
of  Annie's  jewellery  has  become  a  sort  of  capital  for 
us  to  draw  on  in  our  schemes.  He  has  fallen  in  love 
with  me  again,  in  a  stupid,  middle-aged  way — shows 
how  life  abroad  has  improved  my  appearance!  .  .  . 
There's  no  doubt  I  look  ten  years  younger  than  when 
I  married  you — and  he  can  deny  me  nothing.  After 
all,  Annie  has  her  four  hundred  a  year  and  her  chil- 
dren, and  is  as  happy  as  she  deserves  to  be.  I  don't 
see  why  we  shouldn't  drain  Hamilton  dry  before  we 
send  him  back  to  her.  .  .  .  But  it  really  seems  as 
though  we  had  the  devil's  own  luck  since  we  crossed 
the  Channel.  So  far,  most  of  our  ventures  have  been 
successful,  and  we  haven't  got  the  wrong  side  of  the 
law.  .  .  .  Here's  a  seat  and  a  most  lovely  view !  This 
is  a  bit  better  than  Sackville  Street  and  the  Green 
Park  or  the  Royal  Botanic  Gardens  on  a  Sunday! 
And  a  thousand  times  better  than  Yorkshire !  Do  you 
know,  there  are  moments  when  I  almost  forgive  you 
for  marrying  me  under  false  pretences,  since  it  has 
led  to  this  kind  of  life?  We  shall  probably  end  in 
tolerating  one  another.  I  dislike  you  far  less  than  I 
did  during  the  first  year  of  our  marriage;  because  I 
see  less  of  you ;  and  so  long  as  you  don't  waste  money 
and  aren't  imprudent  you  won't  find  me  jealous.  But 
you  still  drink  too  much  wine  .  .  .  liqueurs  .  .  .  ab- 


36  THE  VENEERINGS 

sinthe  .  .  .  brandy.  It  is  not  adding  to  your  beauty 
...  it  swells  your  nose,  and  even  produces  a  pimple 
or  two.  .  .  ." 

"  Stop  that;  if  we're  going  to  be  personal  I  could 
say  a  nasty  thing  or  two  about  your  appearance  .  .  . 
you're  getting  stout  .  .  .  you  eat  too  much.  .  .  . 
Still,  it  is  waste  of  time,  quarrelling;  only,  if  we're  to 
live  side  by  side  and  co-operate,  we  ought  to  have  no 
secrets  from  one  another.  .  .  .  What  were  you  doing 
at  the  Prefecchoor  der  Police?  .  .  ." 

"  The  Prefecture?  I  thought  you  would  soon  want 
to  know,  and  I  had  every  intention  of  telling  you. 
That  was  why  I  proposed  this  day  out  and  this  walk 
back.  .  .  .  Ahem!  What  do  you  think  your  So- 
phronia  has  become,  Monsieur  mon  Mari?  An  agent 
of  the  French  Secret  Service.  But  as  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  is  very  confidential,  let's  get  up  and  walk 
on.  Somebody  might  be  lurking  near  this  seat  who 
understood  English.  .  .  .  You  never  know.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  remember  when  we  were  at  Baden-Baden 
in  the  autumn,  you  wondered  why  I  thought  it  worth 
while  to  make  up  to  that  Prussian  officer,  who  was 
so  proud  of  talking  English?  He  certainly  was  a 
drunken  beast,  but  he  let  out  some  funny  things  about 
the  new  Prussian  rifle  and  some  preparations  the  Prus- 
sians were  making,  after  the  war,  with  Denmark. 
Then  that  Frenchman,  with  the  waxed  moustaches  that 
looked  so  like  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  .  .  .  Sh!  to 
both  of  us.  There's  that  Englishwoman  who  lives  at 
Beaulieu  coming  towards  us  ...  Miss  Spranklin 
.  .  .  I've  often  wondered  who  she  is  ...  a  spy  of 
kinds,  I  expect.  .  .  .  She's  always  turning  up  when 
least  expected.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  do  you  do!  Isn't  it 
glorious  weather,  and  not  oppressively  hot.  Alfred 
and  I  have  been  to  Nice,  and  what  do  you  think? 
We're  walking  home,  to  Condamine !  Taking  it  easy, 
of  course.  French  people  would  say,  '  what  an  Eng- 


SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS  37 

lish  thing  to  do,'  wouldn't  they  ?  But  I've  always  loved 
walking,  more,  I  think,  than  Alfred  does.  He's  been 
more  used  to  riding — in  America — and  all  the  other 
strange  places  he  has  been  to,  but  I,  when  I  was  a  girl 
in  Yorkshire.  .  .  .  You  know  Yorkshire?  .  .  .  Well, 
we  mustn't  keep  you,  and  if  we're  to  get  back  in  time 
to  dress  for  dinner.  .  .  .  See,  Alfred!  There's  an 
empty  carriage  coming  up  just  behind  us.  He's  prob- 
ably returning  to  Monaco,  and  I  dare  say  would  take 
us  there  for  a  trifle.  .  .  ."  (Alfred  goes  to  stop  the 
man. )  "  Am  I  doing  anything  for  the  church  bazaar  ? 
D'you  know,  I'm  shocked  to  say  we've  been  a 
whole  month  in  Condamine  and  I  didn't  know  we  hod 
a  church  there.  I  thought  the  clergyman  we  met  at 
the  Casino  was — er — well,  only  made  up  to  look  like 
a  clergyman.  .  .  .  You  do  meet  such  odd  people 
abroad,  don't  you.  How  much  ?  Five  francs  ?  Well, 
for  that  he  must  take  us  to  our  very  door.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye." 

(They  got  into  the  carriage.)  "  I  could  have  well 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no 
other  means  of  shaking  her  off.  I  don't  suppose  the 
cocker  understands  one  word  of  English,  and  I  needn't 
raise  my  voice,  nor  you  yours. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  that  Frenchman  with  the 
waxed  moustaches  that  we  used  to  see  at  Baden-Baden 
is  really  high  up  in  their  Secret  Service,  their  Political 
Police,  or  whatever  they  call  it.  He  and  I  got  very 
friendly,  as  you  know;  in  fact,  you  began  to  be  dis- 
agreeable about  him.  But  /  knew  what  I  was  about. 
I  told  him  some  of  the  things  the  Prussian  had  told 
me,  and  he  was  much  interested.  He  gave  me  five 
hundred  francs  to  meet  expenses  and  an  address  in 
Paris  to  write  to " 

Alfred:  "  Yes !  And  I  had  to  pay  for  Pillnitz's 
wines  and  cigars.  If  I'd  known  the  game  you  were 
up  to " 

*> 

O'r 


38  THE  VENEERINGS 

Sophronia:  "  You  would  probably  have  spoilt  it  by 
over  civility,  or  by  some  blundering  bluster.  If  you 
paid  out  of  our  common  fund  for  entertaining  him,  / 
paid  out  of  my  annuity  for  the  alluring  dresses  I  wore 
.  .  .  and  the  hats  .  .  .  and  bonnets " 

Alfred:  "  That  type  would  have  probably  been 
more  *  allured,'  as  you  call  it,  if  you'd  worn  nothing 
at  all  in  those  private  interviews  you  used  to  have. 
.  .  .  Haw !  Haw !  For  I  must  say  you've  got  a  spank- 
ing figure,  and  don't  look  your  age " 

Sophronia:  "Alfred!  You  are  a  coarse  beast. 
Where  did  you  come  from  ?  The  veneer  of  civilisation 
is  very  thin " 

Alfred:  "  I  suppose  that's  why  you  prefer  '  Veneer- 
ing/ .  .  .  Haw!  Haw!" 

Sophronia:  "Have  you  been  drinking?  No.  I 
suppose  you  can't  help  these  stable  manners.  But  we 
have  no  time  for  altercations  if  I  am  to  tell  you  as 
much  as  you  need  to  know  before  we  get  back  to  the 
hotel.  The  business  at  Baden-Baden  ended  in  my  get- 
ting some  valuable  information  for  the  French  Gov- 
ernment about  the  way  things  were  going  in  Germany 
— I  mean,  between  Prussia  and  Austria  and  the 
smaller  states.  You  may  have  noticed  the  authorities 
at  Calais  were  very  complaisant  to  me  when  we  re- 
turned. Then  we  went  to  Paris  last  February,  and  I 
was  given  instructions  as  to  work  I  might  do  in  this 
direction;  never  mind  for  the  present  what  work  and 
with  whom.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  Monaco  and  the 
Casino  make  a  very  good  centre.  After  what  I  was 
told  to-day  at  the  Prefecture  de  Police  I  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  we  might  get  rid  of  our  Calais  apart- 
ment, as  we  shan't  be  going  in  that  direction  for  I 
don't  know  when.  We  could  store  some  of  our  things 
and  bring  the  rest  down  here.  No.  I  should  say  store 
all  of  them,  as  I  expect  we  shall  lead  rather  a  wander- 
ing life  for  the  next  year  or  two.  You  know  the  year 


SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS  39 

after  next  they're  going  to  have  a  Great  Exhibition 
at  Paris,  and  I  am  told  I  may  be  required  for  special 
service  there " 

Alfred:  "  And  how  much  are  you  going  to  get  for 
this?  For  I  suppose  while  you  are  playing  this  game 
you'll  have  to  forswear  risky  enterprises?" 

Sophronia:  "  In  a  way,  yes ;  but  that  needn't  pre- 
vent you  from  trying  your  luck,  provided  you  keep 
from  doing  anything  fraudulent.  I  may  even  be  able 
to  put  some  well-paid  work  in  your  way.  As  to  my- 
self, I  shan't  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  get  .  .  . 
and  what  is  more,  I  shall  be  paid  pretty  much  by  re- 
sults. The  people  I  deal  with  pay  well,  but  they  keep 
their  eyes  skinned,  as  the  Americans  say.  However, 
I  think  it  will  turn  out  to  be  a  better  speculation  than 
gambling  and  card-playing  and  jobs  that  verge  on 
blackmail.  We  shall  be  under  the  protection  of  the 
authorities,  which  is  a  comforting  thing  in  the  silent 
watches  of  the  night." 

Alfred:    "  And  Veneering?  " 

Sophronia:  "  Oh,  Veneering.  .  .  .  Well  ...  he 
has  served  his  purpose,  and  is  getting  inconveniently 
fond  of  me  and  a  little  jealous.  He  might  end  by 
being  in  the  way.  You  could  win  a  little  more  money 
off  him  at  cards,  and  then  we'll  return  him  to  Anas- 
tasia,  and  she  can  keep  him.  Now  we're  back  in 
Monaco." 

(The  carriage  stops  at  the  custom's  barrier.) 
"  Rien  a  declarer.;  nous  revenons  de  Nice " 

"I'll  try  to  endure  you,  at  any  rate  for  a  few  years 
longer,  provided  you  don't  get  in  my  way,  don't  take 
to  drinking  absinthe — or  too  much  of  it— don't  cheat 
at  cards,  or  get  found  out  in  anything  really  discred- 
itable ;  and  never  ask  me  where  I  am  going,  what  I  am 
doing,  or  whom  it  was  I  spoke  to.  At  the  same  time, 
if  you  fancy  an  independent  line  of  your  own,  or  that 
you'd  like  to  live  with  some  other  woman,  /  shan't 


40  THE  VENEERINGS 

stand  in  your  way.  I  only  once  baulked  your  schemes, 
and  that  was  over  Georgiana  Podsnap " 

Alfred:  "I  thought  you  did;  though  why  you  did 
it  seemed  incomprehensible " 

Sophronia:  "  I  dare  say.  You  wouldn't  understand 
...  if  I  told  you.  We  all  have  our  weaknesses.  .  .  . 
But  as  against  that,  I  wrung  a  hundred  pounds  out  of 
old  Boffin,  and  without  that  we  should  have  been  hard 
put  to  it  to  start  life  again  at  Calais.  Our  misfortunes 
turned  out  blessings  in  the  long  run.  Even  our  mar- 
riage, which  four  years  ago  seemed  the  most  dreary 
blunder  we  had  either  of  us  perpetrated,  has  really 
brought  us  good  luck,  in  a  way.  All  I  regret  now  is 
that  I  wasted  twenty  years  of  my  life  in  England, 
when  I  might  have  spent  them  to  far  better  advantage 
in  France.  However,  I'm  going  to  make  up  for  lost 
time  now.  Here  we  are  at  the  hotel.  Pay  the  man; 
I  haven't  got  change.  Ah!  Hamilton!  We've  had 
such  a  pleasant  day  at  Nice.  But  you  look  glum ! " 

Veneering:  "  I  had  the  deuce's  own  luck  at  trente- 
et-quarante.  Five  times  in  an  hour  did  '  refait '  *  turn 
up.  There  were  several  things  about  the  declarations 
I  couldn't  understand,  and  you  weren't  there  to  ex- 
plain. My  stakes  were  swept  away  and  no  explana- 
tions were  given — I  shall  go  back  to  roulette " 

Sophronia:  "  You'd  much  better  go  back  to  Annie 
and  Calais.  But  we'll  talk  about  that,  and  much  more, 
after  dinner.  Alfred  shall  teach  us  this  new  card 
game,  '  Napoleon.'  There's  a  young  Italian  officer 
here  who  is  dying  to  learn  it,  and  Count  Markovski  is 
coming,  and  the  Hungarian  whose  name  I  never  can 
remember,  who  is  such  a  swell  at  the  pigeon-shooting. 
...  I  think,  as  I  say,  you  had  better  go  back  to  Calais 
and  see  how  Annie  is  getting  on;  and  .  .  .  yes,  this 
is  an  idea.  You  could  wind  up  our  affairs  at  Calais, 
get  rid  of  our  rooms — don't  scowl !  We've  done  a  lot 
*  "  Thirty-one  " — a  "  tie." 


SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS  41 

for  you  and  your  wife — pay  off  our  servants,  and  store 
our  furniture  in  your  villa — there's  plenty  of  room 
there — in  fact,  you  could  well  set  aside  a  couple  of 
rooms  for  us  to  occupy  if  we  had  to  return  to  Calais 
at  any  time.  .  .  .  I'll  talk  over  all  that  with  you  to- 
morrow, or  else  we  shall  be  late  for  dinner " 

The  next  morning  brought  Hamilton  Veneering  a 
plaintive  letter  from  his  Anastasia,  asking  why  he  re- 
mained so  long  away.  It  was  no  longer  cold  at  Calais ; 
spring-time  was  beginning  to  make  the  surrounding 
country  beautiful  with  pear  and  plum  blossom,  and 
the  children  already  asked  her  several  times  a  day 
when  Papa  was  coming  back.  Baby  was  delicate  and 
a  cause  of  anxiety  over  the  premonitory  symptoms  of 
teething.  The  local  French  doctor  was  kind;  as  was 
Pere  Duparquet,  the  cure.  ...  As  to  the  Revd.  Eus- 
tace Diver  and  Mrs.  Diver,  they  ignored  her  when  she 
met  them  in  Calais  Town ;  though,  owing  to  baby,  she 
very  seldom  got  out  for  a  walk.  Of  all  people  in  the 
world  who  had  called  to  inquire  after  them  was  "  that 
Mr.  Harmon,"  whose  appearance  and  disappearance 
five  years  ago  ..."  The  Man  from  Somewhere  " 
.  .  .  had  been  the  staple  of  conversation  at  their  first 
dinner  parties,  after  they  settled  in  Brompton.  And 
he  had  sent  Hamilton  particularly  the  following  mes- 
sage (here  she  retailed  it),  and  had  said  much  else 
that  had  better  be  reserved  for  face-to-face  conver- 
sation. She  gave  her  love  to  Sophie,  and  her  regards 
to  Mr.  Lammle;  but  if  Hamilton  did  not  return  soon 
she  would  be  very  unhappy. 

To  this  letter  her  husband  replied  that  important 
business  (besides  a  regard  for  his  health,  impaired  by 
their  recent  vicissitudes)  still  kept  him  in  the  new  de- 
partment of  the  Alpes  Maritimes,  but  that  he  would 
be  back  at  Calais  shortly,  though  not  for  long  even 
then,  as  he  could  not  afford  to  settle  down  to  an  idle 
life,  now  that  there  were  three  children  to  support. 


42  THE  VENEERINGS 

To  Harmon  he  wrote  civilly,  expressing  himself 
both  interested  and  grateful  in  noting  that  gentleman's 
intervention  in  the  affairs  of  his  firm.  He  would  give 
him  all  the  information  he  required.  His  liabilities 
were  such  and  such,  chiefly  in  connection  with  Stock 
Exchange  speculations  which  ought  to  have  turned  out 
brilliantly,  but  for  the  unexpected  victory  of  the 
Northern  States  over  the  Southern  in  the  American 
Civil  War.  As  to  the  Mysore  cinchona  plantations, 
on  which  he  had  dropped  a  matter  of  seven  or  eight 
thousand  pounds,  only  a  small  proportion  of  the  loss 
fell  on  the  Mincing  Lane  business.  But  the  particu- 
lars about  these  cinchona  plantations  were  as  follows 
(then  came  a  page  of  technical  details)  :  More  capi- 
tal, the  visit  of  a  shrewd,  capable  man — he  himself  was 
too  old,  too  ailing  in  health  to  travel  so  far — a  good 
rainy  season  next  monsoon ;  and  the  cinchona  planting 
venture  would  turn  out  a  great  financial  success  and 
would  place  Chicksey,  Veneering,  and  Stobbles  no 
longer  at  the  mercy  of  the  Peruvian  and  Dutch  con- 
trol of  the  market.  Mr.  Harmon  could  discuss  all 
these  things  with  Mortimer  Lightwood,  who  was  so- 
licitor to  them  both.  .  .  .  Also  with  George  Stobbles, 
the  remaining  director,  or  any  other  adviser — old  Wil- 
fer  if  he  choose.  He  could  then  appraise  in  a  round 
sum  the  money  value  of  Veneering's  interest  (which 
included  that  of  Mrs.  Veneering  as  the  heiress  of  old 
Chicksey)  in  the  Mincing  Lane  firm  and  buy  him  out, 
become  himself  the  predominant  partner.  When  this 
transaction  was  completed  Mr.  Veneering  proposed  ap- 
plying some  of  the  money,  through  Lightwood,  to- 
wards liquidating  the  more  pressing  of  his  outstand- 
ing debts  in  London. 

As  to  himself,  even  if  a  composition  could  be  ar- 
rived at  with  his  creditors,  he  renounced  any  idea  of 
further  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  drug  market.  He 
was  sick  of  life  in  London  or  anywhere  in  England,  or 


SOPHRONIA'S  FRANKNESS  43 

of  legislation  for  an  ungrateful  country  at  Westmin- 
ster. He  had,  therefore,  no  desire  to  return  to  his  old 
friends  and  haunts,  but  would  devote  any  small  capi- 
tal he  could  save  from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes  to 
building  up  a  business  in  the  more  sympathetic  land  of 
France.  Thus  he  might  make  some  provision  for  his 
wife  and  children — now  three  in  number — and  even- 
tually arrive  at  a  settlement  of  his  debts. 

***** 

A  few  days  after  writing  in  this  strain  he  was  back 
at  Villa  les  Acacias.  But  ready  to  find  fault  with 
everything — with  the  musty  smell  of  the  house,  the  still 
rather  untidy  garden  which,  though  it  produced  a  great 
variety  of  vegetables,  and  had  much  promise  of  fruit, 
had  nothing  in  the  way  of  flower  displays  to  compare 
with  the  glowing  parterres  of  the  Riviera.  He  gave 
no  praise  to  the  lilac  bushes,  heavy  with  blossom,  nor 
to  the  syringa  or  laburnum,  or  the  delicate  white-pet- 
alled  flowers  of  the  false  acacia  (the  Robinia  which 
gave  its  name  to  the  villa). 

The  cooking  seemed  to  him  atrocious  and  the  fare 
very  plain  after  the  delicious  and  varied  repasts  of  the 
southern  hotels.  The  children  played  noisily,  and 
bored  him  with  their  clamour  that  he  should  join  in 
their  games;  then  sobbed  at  his  rough  refusals.  The 
new  baby  incessantly  squalled  and  whimpered  with  its 
rashes  and  skin  troubles,  its  inflamed  gums  and  its  tiny 
stomach  aches.  Its  mother,  to  economise  and  to  avoid 
complications,  was  nursing  it  herself,  and  could  not 
leave  it  therefore  in  the  day-time  and  was  constantly 
waking  at  night  to  attend  to  its  wants ;  thus  disturbing 
her  husband's  rest.  The  villa  was  at  a  distance  of 
nearly  three  miles  from  the  social  haunts  and  pleasures 
of  Calais  Town,  and  in  those  days  was  without  any 
tram  or  omnibus  service.  You  could  drive  out  from 
Calais  to  the  villa  without  very  great  expense;  but  it 
was  difficult  to  obtain  a  carriage  for  driving  to  the 


44  THE  VENEERINGS 

town  without  specially  ordering  it.  The  amount  of 
gambling  permitted  at  the  Casino  or  Club  was  piti- 
fully small  for  one  now  accustomed  to  high  stakes 
and  a  bold  play;  and  at  the  Casino  he  suspected  the 
Direction  of  cheating  audaciously  to  stop  any  run  of 
luck  on  the  part  of  those  patrons  who  were  English 
and  found  it  difficult  to  utter  protests  in  an  intelligible 
way. 

A  month  of  home  life  made  him  feel  that  he  must 
get  away  at  all  costs.  He  wrote  to  Sophronia  saying 
so.  She  replied  that  it  was  out  of  the  question  re- 
joining her,  as  she  was  engaged  on  business  of  her 
own  and  would  find  him  very  much  in  the  way;  but 
that  Alfred  was  returning  to  Baden-Baden  and  would, 
no  doubt,  value  his  companionship.  So  to  Baden- 
Baden  Hamilton  went,  determining  to  brave  the  for- 
tune of  the  tables  in  a  very  resolute  manner,  back  his 
luck  with  all  the  capital  he  could  command,  eat  and 
drink  of  the  best,  enjoy  life  ferociously,  and  make  up 
for  his  abandonment  of  his  wife  and  children  by  send- 
ing Anastasia  occasional  sums  of  money  out  of  his 
winnings. 


CHAPTER  IV 
"ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  " 

MELVIN  VENEERING,  when  he  grew  to  man- 
hood and  wrote  his  name  Mervyn  (to  make  it 
more  normal),  used  to  remember,  with  an  ironical 
smile,  a  sentence  from  his  childish  prayers,  learnt  by 
rote  and  imperfectly  understood :  "  Dod  bless  all  tind 
fiends  and  delations." 

Mrs.  Veneering  had  been  taught  her  prayers  by  her 
nurse  in  William  IV.'s  short  reign,  and  amongst 
other  sentences  had  learnt  this  conventional  pleading 
with  the  Creator  for  her  friends  and  kinsfolk,  though 
as  to  the  latter  she  had  very  few — only  a  grim  Aunt 
Agatha  and  an  apoplectic  Uncle  Tollemache  and  two 
odious,  pasty-faced  cousins.  When  she  had,  in  her 
turn,  to  teach  her  children  a  form  of  prayers,  associ- 
ated in  their  minds  with  cold  and  naked  feet  and  the 
tiresome  toilet  processes  of  getting  up  and  going  to 
bed,  she  introduced  the  same  sentence,  the  more  per- 
functory in  their  case,  since  they  knew  of  no  relations 
and  had  scarcely  a  friend.  In  after  life  Mervyn  was 
more  inclined  to  think  of  relations  as  incumbrances 
to  be  adjusted  than  as  objects  on  whom  to  call  down 
blessings,  and  he  used  to  wonder  how  John  Harmon — 
his  greatest  friend — could  show  such  patience  and  ac- 
tive kindness  towards  his  wife's  connections :  espe- 
cially when  he  was  so  fortunate  himself  as  to  be  free 
from  any  known  relations. 

John  and  Bella  had  married  very  quietly — almost  as 
a  romantic  escapade — in  May,  1863,  and  they  had 
passed  more  than  a  year  of  their  married  life  in  coun- 

45 


46  THE  VENEERINGS 

try  seclusion  on  the  Kentish  outskirts  of  London. 
But  not  long  after  he  had  taken  over  his  inheritance, 
and  set  up  a  rich  man's  establishment  in  a  house  near 
the  corner  of  Wigmore  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  the 
overlooked  relations  of  his  wife  began  to  appear  in 
the  offing  to  Bella's  great  disgust.  Most  of  them  had 
grown  quite  unfamiliar  to  her  because  her  parents,  in 
their  needy  circumstances,  had  been  shunned  by  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  and  in-laws  of  all  kinds,  as  well  as 
deserted  by  their  elder  children — John,  Susan,  Regi- 
nald, and  Cecilia. 

Mrs.  Wilfer,  their  mother,  was  always  in  a  tiff  or  a 
sulk  or  a  mood  of  abstraction.  One  wondered  how 
she  had  ever  become  a  wife  and  a  mother  except  in  a 
gloomy  trance.  She  had  never  appealed  to  their  affec- 
tions, never  acted  as  counsellor  or  confidante,  and  as 
they  grew  up  to  form  their  own  opinions,  she  was  sim- 
ply a  bore  to  be  avoided. 

Their  father,  Reginald  Wilfer,  they  never  under- 
stood— all  except  Bella,  who  was  devoted  to  him — 
and  he  had  easily  reconciled  himself  to  their  departure 
from  the  overcrowded,  dreary,  suburban  home.  Oc- 
casionally they  called  on  him  in  the  City,  when  at  their 
wits'  end,  to  borrow  money  or  to  be  bought  out  of  a 
scrape;  and  he  had  placidly  told  them  he  had  not  a 
penny  to  spare  from  the  upkeep  of  the  little  house  at 
Holloway,  where  he  lived  with  his  wife  and  his  two 
younger  daughters.  When  they  announced  that,  as  a 
consequence  of  their  despair  at  not  being  helped  out 
of  a  hole  or  over  a  stile,  they  might  commit  suicide  or 
emigrate  to  the  colonies,  he  would  say :  "  Well,  my 
dear  boy  (or  girl),  if  you  feel  that  is  the  only  solu- 
tion of  your  difficult  position,  I  must  not  gainsay  you 
or  stand  in  your  way.  .  .  .  You  mustn't  consider 
me " 

Reginald  Wilfer,  Mrs.  John  Harmon's  father,  was 
a  cherubic  little  person  barely  five  feet  six  inches  in 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  ?)     47 

height,  who  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  had  been  married 
by  a  gaunt  young  lady  four  years  younger,  Miss  Ara- 
bella Medlicott.  He  had  fancied  himself  an  admirer 
of  her  tragic  beauty,  but  had  really  been  hypnotised  by 
her  glare,  and  had  proposed  to  her  when  she  gave  way 
to  hysteria  after  being  insulted  by  a  showman  at  Bar- 
net  Fair.  Old  Medlicott,  her  father,  a  terrifying, 
white- whiskered  home  tyrant,  was  a  retired  captain  of 
the  Mercantile  Marine  who  lived  at  Finchley  and  was 
greatly  interested  in  maps  and  charts,  many  of  which 
he  had  helped  to  fill  up  by  his  surveys  and  soundings. 
He  had  invested  a  part  of  his  savings  in  a  map-mak- 
ing business  in  London,  and  also  worked  for  the 
Admiralty. 

In  the  first  twelve  years  of  marriage  Mrs.  Wilfer 
had  produced  eight  children,  two  of  whom  had  died. 
John,  the  eldest,  after  several  vicissitudes  as  a  city 
clerk,  had  emigrated  to  New  Zealand.  His  father, 
having  with  difficulty  got  him  out  of  one  or  two  mone- 
tary muddles,  hoped  fervently  he  would  never  return — 
unless  he  made  a  fortune.  Susan — over  Susan  there 
hung  a  dark  cloud.  She  was  seldom  or  never  men- 
tioned in  the  family  circle  and  was  charitably  assumed 
to  have  gone  on  the  stage.  Reginald,  junior,  had 
drifted  to  the  race-courses  and  become  a  bookmaker's 
clerk. 

Cecilia  was  the  plainest  of  a  family,  which  other- 
wise, by  some  curious  genetic  result  of  the  union  of 
round,  tubby,  fluffy,  blond,  and  blue-eyed  Mr.  Wilfer 
with  gaunt,  cavernous-eyed,  dark-haired,  and  big- 
nosed  Mrs.  Wilfer  was  remarkable  for  good  looks. 
And  she — Cecilia — more  to  spite  her  family  than  to 
please  herself — had  married  an  objectionable  young 
apothecary  who  was  a  Christadelphian,  believed  him- 
self to  be  consumptive,  had  a  large  Adam's  apple  in  his 
throat,  and  a  digestion  weakened  by  his  ready  access 
to  all  the  panaceas  for  indigestion. 


48  THE  VENEERINGS 

Following  Cecilia,  there  came  Bella  (christened 
Arabella,  after  her  portentous  mother),  whom  John 
Harmon  had  married.  And  the  youngest,  living  child 
was  Lavinia  (called  "  Lavvy  "  by  every  one  but  her 
mother).  Lavvy,  in  the  spring  of  1865  was  married 
to  a  Mr.  George  Sampson,  thanks  to  his  having  been 
found  a  post  in  the  resuscitated  firm  of  Chicksey,  Ve- 
neering, and  Stobbles. 

The  first  of  this  brood  to  remind  Bella  of  his  ex- 
istence and  his  needs  was  the  farthest  away — John 
Wilfer — who  had  written  the  following  letter  in  New 
Zealand  about  three  months  previously. 

Auckland,  N.  I., 

New  Zealand. 
April  2,  1865. 

MY  DEAR  SISTER, — 

Mother — we,  in  the  Colonies,  dislike  the  Pa 
and  Ma  business,  we  think  it  too  Frenchy — Mother 
wrote  to  me  at  Christmas  and  told  me  about  your  mar- 
riage to  Mr.  Harmon,  and  how  he  was  so  rich  through 
coming  into  a  fine  property,  and  how  he  had  found  a 
berth  for  Father,  and  little  Lavvy  was  going  to  marry 
your  old  flame,  George  Sampson.  I  was  glad  to  hear 
this  good  news,  family  fortunes  having  fallen  so  low. 

I  expect  you'll  hardly  remember  me.  You  weren't 
much  more  than  fourteen  when  I  cut  Old  England  and 
worked  my  passage  out  to  New  Zealand.  But  I  often 
think  about  you,  nights  and  lonely  days.  You  wore 
your  hair  down  your  back,  and  were  a  regular  spitfire 
if  a  chap  teased  you,  but  nothing  to  little  Lavvy.  I 
pity  George  Sampson  (was  he  the  auctioneer's  son  in 
the  Hampstead  Road?)  if  Lavvy 's  grown  up  like 
what  she  promised,  though  I  dare  say  she's  a  good- 
looking  little  devil. 

Well,  here  I  am,  thirty  last  birthday  and  not  settled 
yet.  Though  I've  got  my  eye  on  a  girl  here  I'd  like  to 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "    49 

marry  if  she'd  have  me,  and  if  I'd  enough  money  saved 
to  buy  land  and  settle  down  to  farm.  But  I've  been  a 
roving  stone  and  gathered  no  moss — or  very  little  so 
far. 

I've  been  mate  on  a  small  schooner  which  belongs  to 
Levy  Brothers  of  Auckland — the  Jew's  Harp,  we  call 
her,  cos  of  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  her  rigging  and 
becos  the  owners  are  Jews,  though  jolly  good  fellows. 
We  traded  with  the  Cannobal  Islands  to  the  north  in 
the  calm  season  of  the  year,  and,  mind  you,  one  way 
and  another,  I've  seen  things  as  would  fill  a  score  of 
boys'  books  if  I  were  only  a  writer.  But  I've  just  been 
through  experiences  on  the  east  side  of  this  North 
Island  as  bad  as  anything  that  could  happen  in  the  New 
Hebrides  or  Feejee.  You  probably  know  from  the 
papers  at  home  that  we've  been  fighting  the  natives — 
what  they  call  the  Maories — for  five  years.  The 
trouble  began  in  the  North  Island  by  their  turning 
against  the  missionaries.  They  accused  them  of  hav- 
ing brought  in  the  white  man  and  diddled  them  into 
selling  their  country  to  the  British  Government.  Then 
they  got  mixed  up  with  the  different  kinds  of  Chris- 
tianity that  the  missionaries  taught.  Some  of  the  mis- 
sionaries were  papists,  some  were  Wesleyans,  and 
some  Church  of  England.  So  at  last  the  Maories  said 
they  would  make  up  a  Christian  religion  to  suit  them- 
selves. And  they  did.  Such  a  farrago  of  nonsense 
and  beastliness  as  you've  no  idea,  and  I  could  not  soil 
the  paper  by  telling  you.  Its  called  Pai  Marire,  and  is 
all  about  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  they've  made  into  a 
goddess  who  can  give  you  permission  in  your  dreams 
to  do  any  d — —  thing  you  like,  even  cannobalism.  Its 
a  rum  thing  how  quick  they  are  to  pick  up  things,  see- 
ing as  they  cant  read  or  write  and  know  nothing  of 
the  world  outside  New  Zealand.  They  know  some- 
thing of  the  difference  between  Jews  and  Christians 
and  although  they  made  the  Virgin  Mary  a  goddess 


50  THE  VENEERINGS 

they've  turn  downright  mad  against  Christianity,  and 
say  its  brought  on  all  their  troubles,  and  make  out  they 
were  so  happy  before  the  white  men  came. 

Well,  there  is  been  living  in  this  town  a  missionary's 
family  of  the  name  of  Voeglein — you  pronounce  it 
Fur-gline.  He  was  a  Church  of  England  clergyman, 
spite  of  his  German  name,  and  he'd  come  out  here  to 
convert  the  natives.  His  principal  station  was  on  the 
bank  of  a  small  river  near  the  coast  of  the  Bay  of 
Plenty.  He  left  it  some  months  ago  to  place  his  wife 
and  daughters  in  safety  at  Auckland,  because  the 
Maories  had  all  turned  nasty  round  him  owing  to  this 
war.  They  thought  he  was  betraying  their  hiding 
places  and  plans  to  the  Government.  But  after  a  bit 
he  fretted  and  fretted  at  having  left  them,  and  thought 
if  he  only  went  back  he  might  recover  his  hold  over 
them.  Plenty  of  people  in  Auckland  advised  him  not 
to,  but  he  would  go.  My  employers  have  got  a  store 
at  his  old  station — Opotiki — and  he  arranged  with  my 
captain,  Morris  Levy,  to  take  him  there,  as  well  as 
another  missionary  who  was  coming  as  his  curate. 

As  soon  as  ever  our  schooner,  the  Jew's  Harp,  got 
alongside  the  wharf  at  Opotiki  the  Maories  came  tum- 
bling on  board  and  took  command,  threatening  to  kill 
us  every  one  if  we  made  any  resistance.  Then  they 
said  to  the  captain,  who  can  understand  their  lingo, 
"  Yore  a  Jew ;  we  won't  kill  you ;  it's  only  Christians 
we're  after."  "  And  he's  a  Jew,"  said  one  of  them, 
pointing  to  me,  and  imagining  I  was  the  captain's 
younger  brother.  I  never  said  anything,  thinking 
discretion  was  the  better  part  of  valour,  as  some  play- 
writing  fellow  once  said.  Well,  they  took  Mr.  Voeg- 
lein and  the  poor  young  curate,  who  spoke  up  very 
plucky,  and  tied  his  arms  behind  his  back  and  shoved 
him  into  a  large  hut  and  said,  "  You  can  wait."  See- 
ing us — the  captain  and  me — following,  their  chief,  a 
tall  man  with  a  beak-like  nose,  and  his  face  hideously 


"ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS"     51 

tattooed,  turned  round  angrily  and  said,  "  Alright, 
you  shall  see  how  we  treat  people  who  betray  us." 
And  then  they  set  on  us,  and  tied  us  up  to  posts  placed 
round  a  big  willow  tree. 

The  captain  had  been  so  shocked  when  they  dragged 
the  two  clergymen  away  from  the  Jeufs  Harp  that  he 
had  offered  them  the  looting  of  the  ship,  and  even  the 
store,  if  they  would  only  let  them  go,  and  we  would 
then  set  sail  and  return  to  Auckland.  But  while  we 
were  disputing  there  came  up  ten  or  more  half-castes. 
They  were  worse  devils  than  the  Maories.  They 
helped  to  tie  us  up,  and  then  rushed  into  the  church 
where  Mr.  Voeglein  was  being  tried,  and  shouted  in 
English,  "  Guilty,  guilty,  no  need  for  more  palaver." 
When  he  saw  they  were  bent  on  killing  him,  he  asked 
for  time  to  say  his  prayers,  and  whilst  he  was  praying 
they  sent  and  took  the  block  and  strop  and  a  coil  of 
rope  from  our  schooner  and  made  them  fast  to  the  big 
willow  tree,  full  in  sight  of  where  we  were  tied. 
There  were  now  quite  eight  hundred  natives  and  half- 
castes  on  the  ground,  shouting  and  dancing  like  mad- 
men, and  letting  off  guns.  Presently  poor  Voeglein 
was  dragged  up  under  the  tree  and  cast  his  eyes  on  us. 
We  wriggled  to  free  ourselves,  and  some  of  the  na- 
tives rushed  at  us  with  clubs.  But  Voeglein  called  out 
in  the  native  language  that  there  was  to  be  no  more 
bloodshed.  Next  they  stripped  him  roughly  of  all  his 
clothes,  even  pulling  off  his  boots,  only  leaving  him 
with  his  flannel  undershirt.  The  chief,  Kereopa,  put 
them  on,  and  was  wearing  the  missionary's  watch. 
Whilst  they  were  tying  Voeglein's  neckerchief  round 
his  eyes  to  blindfold  him,  the  poor  man  was  trying  to 
shake  hands  with  them.  But  he  was  soon  hauled  up 
and  dangling  in  the  air,  with  the  natives  jumping  and 
pulling  his  legs  to  break  his  neck.  As  he  seemed  a 
long  time  dying  they  let  him  drop  on  the  ground,  and 
carried  him  off  insensible,  I  think  and  hope.  Then  the 


52  THE  VENEERINGS 

half-castes  untied  us  and  bade  us  go  back  to  the  ship. 
But  we  followed  the  crowd  to  see  what  was  the  end  of 
their  doings,  and  whether  it  was  too  late  to  save  him. 
What  do  you  think  we  saw?  They  had  laid  him  out 
in  the  form  of  a  cross,  hacked  off  his  head,  and  began 
drinking  the  blood  as  it  poured  from  his  neck. 

Here  Bella,  being  a  Victorian  true  to  type,  could 
read  no  more  for  awhile  without  feeling  faint.  So 
she  laid  down  the  letter  and  applied  herself  to  the  needs 
of  the  new  baby,  Reginald  Boffin  Harmon,  born  six 
weeks  before.  She  had  been  in  the  nursery  when  the 
letter  was  brought  to  her.  But  when  Reginald  was 
satisfied  and  had  turned  to  sleep,  she  took  up  the  letter 
to  see  how  it  ended.  "  Money,  I  suppose,  sooner  or 
later,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  He  would  not  other- 
wise have  taken  the  trouble  to  write  so  long  a  letter 


There  was  a  frightful  scramble  amongst  the  women 
as  to  who  should  have  the  most  of  the  blood,  and  what 
dropped  to  the  ground  they  painted  their  faces  with. 
The  chief  with  the  tattooed  face — Kereopa — then  took 
the  eyes  out  of  the  head  with  his  fingers  and  ate  them 
before  the  whole  crowd.  To  set  an  example,  he  said. 

"  I  don't  wonder  your  Uncle  John  thinks  he  could 
write  books  for  boys,"  she  said  to  the  unconscious 
Reginald  Boffin,  who  was  sleeping  on  her  lap,  with 
crumpled  fists  and  very  tightly  closed  eyelids.  "  I  shall 
be  sick  or  faint  if  I  don't  stop  reading  for  a  bit  Is 
that  you,  nurse?  Yes,  he's  fast  asleep.  You  might 
put  him  back  in  his  cot,  and  tell  Ellen  she  can  dress 
Miss  Hetty  and  bring  her  down  to  go  for  a  drive  with 
me.  The  carriage  is  ordered  for  four  o'clock " 

On  going  up  to  dress  for  dinner  after  returning 
from  a  drive  to  Holloway — whither  she  went  to  beg 


"ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATION  3"     53 

"  Ma  "  to  stop  writing  about  her  happy  marriage  to 
any  more  derelict  relations — "  and  please,  please  never 
a  word  to  the  Medlicott  Aunts.  .  .  .  After  all,  they 

did  NOTHING  for  you  when  we  were  all  so  poor " 

Bella  continued  the  perusal  of  her  brother's  letter. 
She  shuddered  when  she  had  to  pick  up  the  last  sen- 
tences ;  yet  she  wished  to  read  the  end  of  the  story 

After  they  had  thrown  his  body  to  the  dogs  they  turned 
on  us  once  more,  tied  our  hands,  and  imprisoned  us 
in  the  house  of  a  white  settler  who  had  run  away. 
Next  day  a  bigger  chief  than  Kereopa — one  called 
Hatara — arrived  on  the  scene,  and  made  them  release 
us.  How  we  got  away  to  Auckland  after  rescuing 
the  poor  curate  and  taking  him  with  us  in  the  schooner 
is  all  told  in  this  newspaper  cutting.  We  also  had  our 
carte-de-visits  taken  in  Auckland  for  the  English 
papers — I  send  you  one. 

"  He's  very  good  looking,"  mused  Bella,  "  but  I 
should  say  rather  coarsened  by  living  among  canno- 
bals — as  he  calls  them " 

I  was  told  off  to  go  and  break  the  news  to  Mrs.  Voeg- 
lein  and  her  daughters.  And  the  sight  of  the  eldest 
daughter  crying  just  set  my  heart  aflame  for  love  of 
her.  She  is  so  pretty  with  flaxen  hair  and  blue  eyes. 
But,  of  course,  she  won't  listen  to  me  while  she's  in 
morning,  and,  even  then — what  have  I  got  to  marry 
on?  I  wonder,  dear  Sis,  if  your  good  man,  suppos- 
ing he's  as  rich  as  Mother  says  he  is,  would  advance 
me  a  matter  of  three  hundred  pounds  by  a  draft  on 
the  New  Zealand  Banking  Company,  Auckland,  and 
address  the  letter  to  me  to  their  care?  I'd  swear  to 
pay  it  back  soon  as  money  came  to  me  through  farm- 
ing. I'd  buy  land,  put  sheep  on  it,  build  a  shieling, 
and  marry  Crete — you  pronounce  her  name  like  nut- 


54  THE  VENEERINGS 

meg-grater.  Meantime,  I've  joined  the  Colonial 
forces,  to  have  a  fair  chance  of  shooting  some  of  the 
devils  who  killed  Crete's  father 

"  What  are  you  looking  so  worried  over,  little 
woman?"  said  John  Harmon,  surprising  her  half- 
dressed  at  her  dressing  table.  "  Is  it  about  baby?  " 

"  Thank  goodness,  no.  The  little  vampire  dropped 
off  into  a  sound  sleep  after  his  evening  meal.  It's 
about  this  letter,  with  your  dear  name  at  the  bottom 
of  the  last  sheet,  only  it's  another  John,  a  tiresome 
brother  of  mine  who  emigrated  to  New  Zealand  ages 
ago  and  now  wants  us  to  help  him  to  get  married.  It's 
a  horrible  letter,  all  about  '  Cannobals,'  as  he  spells 
it.  Don't  read  it  till  you've  had  your  dinner " 

She  finished  dressing  herself  with  the  aid  of  a  maid, 
and  went  down  the  handsomely  carpeted  stairs  on 
John's  arm  to  a  richly  furnished  dining-room,  where 
they  enjoyed  a  tete-a-tete  dinner,  with  as  little  assist- 
ance from  men-servants  as  was  permissible  for  their 
station  in  life.  The  "  dear  old  Boffins,"  whom  the 
previous  year  they  had  invited  to  share  the  house  with 
them,  had  expressed  themselves  satiated  with  town 
life  and  Fashion,  and  only  came  up  on  occasional  visits 
from  the  country  cottage  between  Blackheath  and  Elt- 
ham,  which  they  had  taken  over  from  the  Harmons. 

After  dinner,  Harmon  read  through  John  Wilfer's 
letter.  The  upshot  was  that  he  declared  him  to  be  a 
fine  adventurous  fellow,  well  worth  encouragement.  He 
should  send  him  a  draft  for  £300,  and  ask  to  be  ap- 
prised in  due  time  of  the  marriage.  He  would  tell  his 
brother-in-law  to  regard  this  sum  not  as  a  loan,  but  as 
a  wedding  present  from  himself  and  Bella.  "  I  shall 
say  if  your  brother  feels  he  owes  me  any  counter- 
service  he  can  make  inquiries  about  effective  drugs 
which  the  Maori  derive  from  forest  or  field,  and  send 
me  samples  for  analysis.  ...  In  some  such  way  I 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "     55 

want  to  start  correspondents  all  over  the  new  parts  of 
the  world,  to  find  out  new  medicines." 

"  It's  awfully  sweet  of  you,  John;  you're  quite  the 
most  generous  man  I  ever  heard  of.  But  I  do  wish 
you'd  speak  of  it  as  a  loan.  I  know  we're  rich,  but  we 
aren't  rich  enough  to  support  all  my  family  and  all  the 
people  they  marry " 

"  That's  why  I'm  going  to  start  a  great  medicine 
business  out  of  Veneering's  firm  in  the  City.  I'm  con- 
vinced there's  a  vast  fortune  to  be  made  out  of  drugs, 
and  much  good  to  be  done  by  selling  the  right  kind  of 
drug.  And,  as  to  helping  your  family — why  not  them 
as  well  as  any  other  family?  " 

"  Darling  John !  You're  so  good  and  sweet,  I'm 
almost  frightened  sometimes — frightened  Providence 
will  take  you  from  me,  in  the  spiteful  way  it  does  if 
any  human  being  becomes  too  good,  too  lovable.  Oh, 
how  happy  I  ought  to  be!  I  don't  deserve  you.  .  .  . 
Think  what  you've  done  already,  since  we  married.  Pa 
can  hold  his  head  up  now  as  the  chief  clerk  at  the 
Mincing  Lane  office,  and  they'll  soon  have  moved  to 
that  little  house  in  Chelsea  where  Ma  can  be  as  pom- 
pous as  she  likes,  and  wear  black  silk  dresses  that  will 
stand  up  of  themselves,  and  Pa  can  go  backwards  and 
forwards  to  the  City,  not  trudging  on  his  poor  tired 
little  feet  like  he  used  to  do,  but  on  a  river  steamer. 
And  there's  George  Sampson  provided  for,  too,  and 
you  gave  Lavvy  a  wedding  present  of  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  they're  going  to  settle  in  Fulham,  near 
Pa  and  Ma — I  only  hope  Lavvy  won't  come  here  too 
often,  because  she  rather  gets  on  my  nerves,  now  I'm 
not  very  strong " 

She  certainly  looked  rather  ethereal  after  her  last 
confinement,  thought  John,  as  she  turned  her  face  to 
a  profile  to  conceal  a  tear  or  two  of  gratitude  and  a 
trembling  lip. 

"  D'you  know,  Bella,"  he  said,  wishing  to  give  the 


56  THE  VENEERINGS 

conversation  a  less  sentimental,  more  practical  turn, 
"  there's  no  particular  merit  about  my  taste.  I  might 
just  as  easily  have  taken  pleasure  in  doing  evil.  I'm 
not  responsible.  I  s'pose  it's  some  freak  of  heredity 
these  scientific  men  are  beginning  to  write  about.  .  .  . 
My  mother's  nature  re-born  in  me,  and  not  my  father's. 
Or  my  Gloucestershire  grandfather  may  have  been  a 
kindly  man,  and  it's  skipped  one  generation.  ...  I 
can  only  say  that  as  a  boy  I  was  so  miserable,  so 
starved  for  love  and  sympathy,  that  I  used  to  vow  if 
ever  I  became  better  off  I  would  help  all  the  lame  dogs, 
all  the  struggling  and  unhappy  people  I  came  across. 
I  believe  Charles  Dickens  must  be  like  that,  too.  They 
say  he  had  a  miserable  boyhood.  I  met  him,  by  the 
bye,  at  that  Literary  Fund  dinner,  where  I  was  one  of 
the  stewards,  and  he  actually  remembered  me !  Think 
of  that!  Remembered  our  meeting  at  Greenwich  two 
years  ago,  and  how  I'd  told  him  something  of  my  life 
and  circumstances.  .  .  .  Well,  there  it  is,  and  don't 
let's  gush  about  it.  Be  thankful  it  isn't  racing  that's 
got  hold  of  me,  or  gambling,  like  the  Lammles,  or  a 
rage  for  asking  total  strangers  to  dinner,  as  the  Ve- 
neerings  used  to  do.  .  .  .  Let's  go  to  my  study." 

(Lights  pipe.  Bella  fetches  some  Berlin  wool-work 
slippers  on  perforated  canvas — a  fascinating  pastime 
which  Fashion  might  well  revive.  It  must  have  dis- 
solved many  a  sorrow,  following  the  painted  pattern 
and  searching  for  the  right  hole;  and  the  relaxation 
of  the  mind  when,  having  finished  the  intricate  pink 
roses,  you  had  only  the  solid  background  of  Prussian 
blue  to  fill  in!) 

He  put  Bella  into  a  small  armchair;  then,  as  the 
room  smelt  a  little  of  burnt  gas,  went  and  threw  up 
the  window.  An  ideal  summer  evening,  scarcely  dark 
yet,  and  he  wished  they  were  back  at  the  Lee  Green 
country  cottage  of  their  honeymoon.  No  one  ought 
to  live  in  London  after  June.  "  But  we'll  go  off  to  the 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "     57 

Isle  of  Wight  as  soon  as  you're  strong  enough  to 
travel." 

"  Talking  of  the  Veneerings,"  he  went  on,  "  they 
have  been  much  in  my  mind  lately.  I've  practically 
decided  what  to  do.  I'm  going  to  buy  up  Stobbles's 
interest  in  the  firm,  change  its  name  to  Harmon, 
Veneering  and  Co.,  make  your  father  a  partner  by- 
and-bye  .  .  .  put  Master  Reginald  into  the  business 
later  on.  I  shan't  buy  out  Veneering  altogether, 
because  he'd  only  squander  the  money  at  the  gaming 
tables  or  lend  it  to  the  Lammles ;  but  I'm  going  to  use 
his  half-share  of  the  profits.  He's  consented,  of 
course — to  pay  off  his  debts  on  this  side  and  send  the 
other  half  every  year  to  his  wife  to  pay  for  her  chil- 
dren's education " 

Bella:    "Where  is  he  now?" 

John:  "  At  Baden-Baden,  probably.  .  .  .  His  wife 
forwards  his  letters.  .  .  .  The  Lammles  seem  to  have 
separated  for  a  time.  .  .  .  Oh,  quite  amiably!  The 
intriguing  Sophronia  is  sometimes  at  Paris  and  some- 
times at  Baden-Baden — I  dare  say  with  Veneering. 
And  the  villainous  Alfred  seems  to  be  doing  very  well 
— member  of  all  the  best  clubs — at  Monaco  or  at  this 
new  suburb  of  Monaco  .  .  .  Monte  something.  The 
fair  Sophronia,  you  know,  came  over  here — it  was 
during  your  confinement — and  paid  some  of  Alfred's 
more  pressing  debts.  So  Lightwood  told  me.  I  can't 
somehow  detest  that  woman  as  much  as  you  do.  I 
admire  her  daring,  her  cheek.  Why  is  it  one  would 
sooner  help  a  sinner  to  repentance  and  respectability 
than  a  righteous  man  to  avoid  a  stumble?  " 

Bella:  "  But  do  you  really  think  the  drug  business 
could  be  made  to  pay  ?  " 

John:  "  Rather !  Especially  vegetable  drugs.  I  be- 
lieve in  the  great  tropical  and  semi-tropical  forests  there 
are  cures  for  all  the  diseases  that  afflict  us.  It  only 
wants  research  and  clever,  patient  experiments  in  the 


58  THE  VENEERINGS 

laboratory.  At  any  rate,  it  is  the  one  opening  that 
appeals  to  me.  I  used  to  think  about  it  often,  out  in 
South  Africa,  when  I  watched  the  natives  preparing 
their  own  remedies." 

Bella:  "  I  hope  you  will  make  nice  things  as  well  as 
nasty.  Couldn't  you  find  a  way  of  making  all  medi- 
cines taste  nice  ?  All  of  them :  like  pates  de  guimauve, 
and  rose  drops,  and  glycerine.  ...  Is  glycerine 
vegetable  ?  " 

John:  "  No.  I  believe  it  is  made  from  beef  suet 
.  .  .  animal  fat,  at  any  rate " 

Bella:  "  Ugh !  Now  you'll  bring  me  back  to  that 
horrible  letter  of  my  brother  John's.  It'll  be  ages 
before  I  forget  that  detail  of  the  cannibal  chief  picking 
out  and  eating  the  eyes  " — (shudders) — "  But  suppos- 
ing you're  wrong,  and  this  business  isn't  a  success? 
.  .  .  Oh,  John!  " — (putting  down  her  wool-work  and 
putting  up  hands  of  appeal) — "  Whatever  we  do,  don't 
let's  slip  back  into  poverty!  After  the  last  two  years, 
I  don't  think  I  could«bear  to  be  poor  .  .  .  again." 

"  Don't  you  be  distressed,  my  lovey  darling.  You 
shall  never  be  poor  again,  please  God!  I'm  going  to 
take  a  leaf  out  of  Veneering's  book.  I  intend  to  settle 
on  you,  and  your  children  afterwards,  thirty  thousand 
pounds,  tie  it  up,  make  it  yours ;  then,  instead  of  giving 
you  pin  money  and  a  dress  allowance,  you  shall  have  it 
in  the  form  of  your  own  private  income,  with  no 
account  of  how  you  spend  it  to  render  to  any  one  .  .  . 
no  stupid  husband  grumbling  over  millinery  bills  and 
glove-makers'  bills.  And  then,  supposing  with  the 
utmost  care  I  do  come  to  grief,  you  II  be  provided  for, 
and  your  precious  babes.  And  I  shall  have  to  come 
to  you  to  beg  a  shelter  and  a  crust.  .  .  .  What  will 
you  say  then  ?  " 

(Bella  looks  up  at  him  with  shining  eyes  and  opens 
her  arms  to  receive  him.  He  stoops  on  one  knee  to 
the  hearthrug  to  be  embraced.  And  at  that  moment 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "     59 

the  servant  enters — as  they  always  do — and  tenders  a 
card  on  a  salver.  John  scrambles  to  his  feet.) 

Servant:    "  A  lady  to  see  you,  ma'am." 

Bella:  "  At  this  hour?  " — (putting  away  her  wool- 
work)— "  Impossible!  Why  didn't  you  say,  '  Not  at 
home'?" 

Servant:  "  Well — er — I  did  say  so,  ma'am,  but  it 
.  .  .  wasn't  .  .  .  easy  ...  to  keep  it  up.  ...  Lady 
was  so  insisting  she  must  see  you,  and  said  she  was  a 
relation,  and  that  Mrs.  Wilfer  had  given  her  your 
address " 

(Bella  takes  a  rather  dirty,  printed  visiting-card  and 
reads :  "  Miss  Susie  Wilbraham."  Stares,  puzzled,  at 
her  husband ;  then  says :  "  You  must  help  me  out, 
John,  if  she's  very  fatiguing.") 

Enter  Miss  Susie  Wilbraham.     Exit  servant. 

Bella  looks  up  as  John  goes  to  meet  the  visitor,  and 
sees  a  face  and  figure  that  are  oddly  reminiscent.  It — 
it — yes,  it  must  be  her  legendary  sister,  Susan,  sup- 
posed to  have  gone  on  the  stage  some  nine  years  ago, 
and  never  heard  of  since.  Before  that  disappearance, 
Bella  remembered  stormy  scenes  between  a  very  red- 
cheeked,  sloe-eyed,  rudely  handsome  Susan  and  her 
mother:  flying  sentences  of  defiance:  "Oh  shut  up! 
I  shall  do  as  I  like:"  "  How  dare  you,  miss?  If  you 
stay  out  again  I  cast  you  off  for  ever !  "  :  behind  closed 
doors.  Or  discussions  between  her  father  and  mother, 
with  Susan  as  the  subject :  and  her  father  looking  very 
worried  and  very  sad,  and  Mrs.  Wilfer  imitating  the 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Siddons  as  The  Tragic  Muse. 

This  trance,  of  course,  only  lasted  a  second.  Susie 
Wilbraham  came  forward  with  an  assumption  of  ease, 
obviously  counterfeit,  and  said:  "Do  you  remember 
me,  Bella?  Your  sister,  Susan?  "  Then  John,  show- 
ing no  sign  of  surprise,  interrupted :  "  I'll  go  and  write 
a  few  letters,  Bella.  I'd  better  shut  that  window  before 
I  go,  lest  you  catch  a  chill,  and  I  shall  return  in  about 


60  THE  VENEERINGS 

half  an  hour  to  see  you  off  to  bed.  I  am  sure  Miss 

Wil "  he  hesitated  over  the  name.  Susie  turned 

on  him  sharply :  "  Wilbraham.  It's  me  stage  name, 
me  nom  de  theatre,  as  they  say.  I'm  really  Susan 
Wilfer " 

"  Well,  my  dear  sister-in-law,  you  won't  keep  Bella 
talking  too  long,  I  know.  I  expect  you  have  heard 
from  your  mother  that  she  has  only  recently  got  over 
her  confinement,  and  has  to  be  taken  special  care  of. 
See  you  later."  He  left  the  room,  carefully  shutting 
the  door,  and  ensconced  himself  in  the  library  across 
the  hall. 

Bella  had  risen  and  offered  her  cheek  to  Susan,  who, 
however,  clasped  her  in  an  embrace  of  exaggerated 
affection,  and  as  she  did  so  Bella — shrinking  from  her 
— smelt  the  brandy  in  her  breath.  She  somehow  knew 
Susan's  history  from  that  moment. 

She  indicated  another  armchair  for  Susan  to  seat 
herself.  The  latter  untied  her  bonnet  strings — the 
bonnet  was  very  small  and  flat,  the  strings  were  of 
purple  ribbon  and  extensive — and  removed  it  from 
her  untidy  mass  of  brown-black  hair.  Then  she 
sought  for  a  handkerchief,  and  gave  way  to  hysterical 
crying.  She  was  extravagantly  dressed;  but  her 
clothes  seemed  out  of  season,  more  suited  to  winter 
or  early  spring  than  mid-summer,  and  the  trailing 
skirts  were  steeped  in  road  dust. 

"  Oh,  Bella! "  she  gasped,  "  take  me  in  for  just  this 
night!  Mother  refused  to  when  I  went  round  to  Hollo- 
way  this  evening.  All  I  got  out  of  her  was  your  ad- 
dress, and  she  said  your  husband  wouldn't  be  best 
pleased  to  see  me.  He  didn't  look  it,  either.  Take  me 
in  to-night.  My  gentleman  has  turned  me  out  ...  on 
the  streets" — (she  cried  convulsively) — "I've  no 
money,  and  if  you  put  me  out,  too,  I  shall  just  go  to 
the  river  and  drown  meself ' 

"What  gentleman?"  asked  Bella. 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "     61 

"  Why,  Mr.  Wayson,  to  whom  I'm  as  good  as 
married,  and  who's  been  listening  to  a  pack  of  lies 
about  me " 

"But  why  do  you  call  yourself  Wilbraham?" 

"  Oh  that!  Why,  because  when  I  first  left  home  I 
went  off  with  a  gentleman  of  that  name,  and  it  was  so 
like  Wilfer  that  it  seemed  almost  providential.  I 
thought  '  Susie  Wilbraham  '  just  right  for  a  stage 
name  to  dance  under.  For  I  did  get  several  engage- 
ments on  the  boards — the  Britannia  and  the  Grecian. 
.  .  .  But  I  seemed  to  do  better  for  myself  in  a  private 
line,  so  to  speak.  .  .  .  But  it's  a  long  story  I've  got 
to  tell.  .  .  .  I've  been  very  hard  treated.  I'll  tell  you 
everything  to-morrow  after  breakfast.  .  .  .  You  will 
put  me  up,  won't  you ?" 

"  Would  you  mind  pulling  that  bell  rope  near  you?  " 

Susie  did  as  she  was  asked.  A  servant  was  soon  in 
the  room. 

"  James !  Would  you  find  your  master — I  think  he 
is  in  the  library — and  say  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
him?" 

John  is  by  her  side  in  a  minute. 

"  John,  darling,  I'm  a  tiresome  little  goose,  but  I'm 
feeling  dreadfully  faint.  Susie  wants  us  to  put  her 
up  for  the  night.  .  .  .  You  don't  mind,  do  you  ? " 
(timidly  stroking  his  hand). 

"Mind?  Of  course  not.  Shall  I  send  for  your 
maid?  And  then  you  must  go  to  your  room  like  a 
good  obedient  wifie." 

The  maid  comes. 

"  Masters !  "  said  Mrs.  Harmon.  "  This  lady,  Miss 
Wilbraham,  is  staying  here  to-night.  Would  you  get 
the  second  spare  room  ready  as  quickly  as  possible 
.  .  .  and  ask  cook  to  make  some  sandwiches  and  .  .  . 
what  wine  would  you  like,  Susie?" 

"  Port,  a  glass  of  port." 

"  Very  well,  then,  bring  a  decanter  of  port  on  the 


62  THE  VENEERINGS 

tray  with  the  sandwiches,  or,  rather,  Alice  can  do  that, 
whilst  you  and  Emily  get  the  room  ready.  Miss 
Wilbraham  has  not  got  her  luggage  with  her,  so  please 
put  out  for  her  use  night  things  of  mine,  will  you? 
John,  darling,  you  shall  see  me  up  stairs,  and  then 
come  back  and  entertain  Susie  until  her  room  is  ready." 

On  the  way  up  the  staircase,  while  Susie  is  gazing 
into  the  stove  ornament  in  the  grate  and  shedding  a  few 
vinous  tears,  Bella  says  to  John :  "  My  darling!  Can 
you  forgive  me  for  all  the  trouble  I  am  bringing  on 
you?  My  dreadful  relations!" 

"  Nothing,"  he  says,  "  will  be  a  trouble  to  me  so  long 
as  you  get  well  and  keep  well." 

Then  he  returns  to  his  study  to  receive  Susan's 
account  of  herself. 

"Do  you  mind  my  smoking?"  he  begins,  seating 
himself  in  the  armchair  Bella  has  quitted. 

"  Lord,  no  \  I  smoke  meself  sometimes.  Y'  haven't 
got  such  a  thing  as  a  cigarette  in  the  house,  I  suppose  ? 
Or  one  o'  those  little  pieces  of  paper  and  some  pipe 
tobacco?  I  could  roll  myself  one " 

"  Sorry !  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I  only  smoke 
pipes  and  cigars.  .  .  .  However " 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  It  must  be  gettin'  on  in  time, 
and  you  won't  want  to  stop  away  from  Bella  too  long. 
S'pose  you  want  to  know  all  about  me?  Ma's  told 
you  nothin'  ?  " 

"  I  want  first  to  know,  am  I  to  call  you  Susan  or 
Susie?" 

'  'Chever  you  please " 

"  Well,  then,  Susie,  you  ran  away  from  home.  .  .  . 
When?" 

"  Nine  years  ago " 

"  And  you  went  to  live  with  a  Mr.  Wilbraham  ?  " 
—  (she  nods) — "And  he  didn't  marry  you?" — (she 
shakes  her  head  ) — "  What  was  he  ?  " 

"  Man  who  had  the  circus  that  sometimes  came  to 


"ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS"     63 

Holloway  Fields.  He  promised  to  get  me  an  engage- 
ment to  dance  at  a  theatre  or  at  a  circus,  but  the 
managers  to  whom  he  introduced  me  said  I  couldn't 
dance — hadn't  been  prop'ly  trained.  .  .  .  /  dunno — I 
think  he  meant  to  do  the  right  thing  by  me,  but  one 
of  his  wives  turned  up  from  Birmingham  and  made  a 
hell  of  a  row,  so  I  sloped.  The  circus  just  then  was 
in  Northamptonshire — I  didn't  quite  know  what  to  do, 
thought  I'd  walk  to  London,  and  try  my  luck  there. 
.  .  .  I'd  got  over  some  miles,  and  then  I  felt  hungry, 
and  me  feet  hurt  me.  I  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the 
road  and  began  to  cry,  an'  a  pretty  young  lady  came 
riding  up  with  her  husband  and  asks  what  I  was  crying 
about.  I  told  her  some  story — I  dessay  I  told  her  the 
truth,  I  was  that  miserable.  She  told  me  to  go  to  the 
big  house  I  could  see  at  the  end  of  a  long  avenue  and 
ask  for  the  housekeeper,  and  say  her  Ladyship  had 
told  me  to  stay  there  and  await  her  return. 

"  Well,  presently  she  came  back.  It  was  the  Coun- 
tess of  Towcester.  Long  and  short  of  it  was,  she  said 
she  would  find  me  a  place  as  sewing  maid  (only  I 
couldn't  sew !) — unless  I  would  like  to  go  into  a  home. 
...  I  said  I  much  preferred  to  take  a  place  in  her 
household  and  for  a  time  I  was  happy  enough.  Then 
the  butler  came  messing  about  me,  and  they  found  it 
out,  and  gave  me  ten  pounds  to  make  my  way  back 
to  London,  and  the  Countess  advised  me  to  go  home 
to  my  mother  and  try  to  make  a  fresh  start.  Well, 
I  was  jolly  well  sick  of  Holloway — all  us  girls  at  home 
doing  nothing,  though  Ma  had  tried  to  start  a  day- 
school — so  instead  I  went  and  saw  Kate  Hamilton  in 
the  Haymarket,  and  she  took  me  on  as  one  of  her  girls 
and  advanced  the  money  for  me  to  buy  some  good 
dresses.  .  .  .  But  if  I'm  to  tell  you  all  my  life  for  the 
last  nine  years  whilst  we  sit  here,  I  shall  get  you  into 
trouble  with  Bella.  She'll  think  I'm  flirting  with  me 
brother-in-law."  (Yawns  prodigiously.) 


64  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Quite  so,"  said  John,  making  an  effort  to  conceal 
his  utter  disgust.  "  By  this  time  they've  got  your 
room  ready.  I  should  advise  you  to  have  your  break- 
fast in  bed,  and  not  to  ask  to  see  Bella  till  she  comes 
downstairs.  I  will  think  over  very  carefully  what  I 
can  do  for  you.  But  just  remember  this.  I  will  do 
nothing  if  you  vex,  annoy,  or  even  inconvenience  Bella 
in  any  way.  In  any  way.  Sooner  than  that,  I  would 
put  you  out  of  the  house  myself " 

"  Who  says  I'm  going  to  upset  her  or  annoy  her?  " 
said  Susie,  angrily.  "  A  sister,  after  all,  is  a  sister, 
the  right  person  to  turn  to  when  you're  in  trouble, 
especially  when  your  mother  is  a  daft  old  geezer  like 
our  Ma.  I  shan't  talk  to  the  servants.  I  only  said 
I  was  a  relation " 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  best  to  warn  you,  so  that  there 
might  be  no  misunderstanding.  I  will  see  what  can  be 
done  for  you  to-morrow" — (rings  bell) — "  Please  ask 
Emily  to  come  here  and  show  Miss  Wilbraham  up  to 
her  room" — (goes  out) — "Oh,  is  that  you,  Emily? 
Miss  Wilbraham  will  breakfast  in  her  room  to-morrow 
morning.  She  has  been  very  much  upset  at  losing 
her  luggage " 

He  suddenly  thought  of  this  white  lie,  as  a  feeble 
expedient  to  explain  her  to  the  servants  with  as  little 
slur  as  possible  on  Bella's  relationships.  He  went  to 
bed  in  his  dressing-room  that  night  so  as  not  to  awake 
and  disturb  his  wife  or  tempt  her  to  keep  herself 
awake  by  talking  about  this  appalling  sister.  Her 
brothers  and  sisters  were  what  they  were,  without  any 
blame  attaching  to  her.  Lavvy  was  a  pert,  suburban- 
minded  young  woman,  but,  at  any  rate,  she  was  a  hard- 
working, eminently  respectable  wife  to  George  Samp- 
son; and  George,  though  far  less  interesting  than  a 
muscular  navvy,  was  at  least  an  honest  clerk  who 
earned  his  salary.  John  Wilfer  fortunately  lived  at 
the  Antipodes,  and  very  likely  would  make  good  use 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "     65 

of  three  hundred  pounds.  Cecilia  Davenant  was  es- 
sentially repellent  with  her  plainness  of  feature  and 
bad  complexion,  her  untidy  dress,  skimpy  hair,  and 
her  interest  concentrated  on  her  husband's  and  chil- 
dren's maladies;  and  Eldred  Davenant's  nauseous  in- 
termixture of  belief  in  quack  medicines  and  quack 
religions.  But,  at  any  rate,  Cecilia  had  only  once  been 
to  see  them,  and  lived  at  Hornsey  (a  serious  distance 
from  Cavendish  Square  for  a  woman  of  the  lower 
middle  class  before  the  days  of  motor  buses  and  tube 
railways).  .  .  .  Reginald,  the  Wilfers'  younger  son, 
was  reputed  to  be  a  bad  lot,  corrupted  by  the  race- 
courses; but  he  was  seemingly  so  engrossed  in  the 
rogueries  of  racing  and  betting  that  he  had  not  noticed 
the  fact  of  having  a  rich  brother-in-law.  He  never 
communicated  with  his  mother. 

"If  only  that  tiresome  old  fool  does  not,  out  of 
vanity,  write  to  him !  .  .  .  I'll  concentrate  my  thought 
just  now  on  how  to  get  rid  of  Susan  without  unkind- 
ness,  and  to  that  end  I'll  go  first  thing  in  the  morning 
and  consult  with  Lavvy." 

On  this  conclusion  he  fell  asleep,  just  after  the 
chimes  of  the  nearest  church  clock  had  announced  two 
in  the  morning. 

The  morning  thus  heralded  was  one  of  glorious  sun- 
shine. "  I  must  write  to-day  about  those  rooms  at 
Freshwater  Bay  before  I  go  out.  Doctors  notwith- 
standing, I  carry  you  off  there  on  Friday,"  he  an- 
nounced to  Bella,  while  she  was  contemplating  the 
letters  on  her  breakfast  tray. 

She  replied  abstractedly :  "  Yes,  that  would  be 
lovely."  Then  fell  to  opening  and  reading  one  of  the 
letters. 

"  Isn't  this  perfectly  maddening  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Read  this." 

John  read  aloud : 


66  THE  VENEERINGS 

2,  The  Grove, 
Finchley, 

July  23,  1865. 

MY  DEAR  BELLA, — 

Your  dear  Mama  has  resumed  her  correspondence 
with  us  after  a  too  long  interval  of  silence,  brought 
about  by  family  dissensions,  which  I  hope  will  now 
have  healed.  Having  heard  a  rumour  that  you  had 
married  advantageously,  we  resolved  to  break  the  ice, 
and  be  the  first  to  forgive ;  and  your  Mama,  in  replying 
to  us  and  exchanging  sisterly  greetings,  with  no  exacer- 
bating references  to  dear  Papa's  will,  gave  us  your 
address.  We  propose  paying  you  a  visit  of  ceremony, 
a  "  marriage  call " ;  though  we  hear  you  have  now 
given  your  husband  two  pledges  of  your  love;  still, 
you  have  not  been  married  much  more  than  two  years, 
so  we  will  consider  it  our  marriage  call,  and  shall  hope 
henceforth  to  see  much  of  you  and  the  gentleman  you 
have  married ;  under  romantic  circumstances,  we  hear. 

Therefore,  if  not  inconvenient  to  yourself,  we  pro- 
pose to  charter  a  fly — as  dear  Papa  used  to  say  in  his 
nautical  way — from  the  livery  stables  at  the  Bull ;  and 
arrive  at  your  mansion  about  three  o'clock  on  Thurs- 
day next,  to-day  being  Monday.  We  shall  seem 
strangers,  I  fear,  for  we  have  not  met  you  since  you 
were  a  little  baby,  dear  Papa  not  seeing  eye  to  eye 
with  Mr.  Wilfer,  your  father,  who,  he  considered,  had 
far  too  large  a  family  in  proportion  to  his  means. 
But,  as  we  used  to  plead  with  him 

"  I'm  sure  they  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  old  cats," 
broke  in  Bella.  "  They  did  their  best  to  set  Grandpa 
against  Pa  and  Ma,  so  as  to  get  all  his  money." 

John  went  on  imperturbably : 

plead  with  him,  these  were  matters  dependent  not 

on  human  will,  but  on  the  Divine  ruling.     In  any  case, 


"  ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS  "     67 

we  will  say,  "  Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  and  hope  on 
Thursday  to  renew  the  happy  relations  which  should 
always  subsist  between  kinsfolk.  Your  Aunt  Isabella 
— another  Bella,  you  will  observe,  she  and  your  dear 
Mama  arid  I  being  named  after — or  should  I  say  in 
accordance  with? — the  spirit  of  our  dear  father's 
employ.  (He  was  for  a  very  long  period  a  captain 
in  the  service  of  the  "  Belle  "  line  of  paddle  steamers 
which  plied  up  and  down  the  Channel  and  across  to 
the  Continent.)  .  .  .  But  how  I  have  wandered  away 
from  the  beginning  of  the  sentence!  Your  aunt  Isa- 
bella joins  me  in  affectionate  greetings  of  love  to  you 
and  your  babes,  and  in  kind  regards  ^o  Mr.  Harmon, 
whom  we  shall  welcome  as  a  Nephew. 

Your  affectionate  Aunt, 

DULCIBELLA    MEDLICOTT. 

John:  "  You  haven't  eaten  all  the  breakfast  you 
should  while  I  have  been  reading.  Write — civilly,  of 
course;  I  hate  discord  between  relations — and  tell  the 
old  cats  you  will  see  them  when  you  come  back  from 
the  Isle  of  Wight." 

"  And  now  about  Susan.  Don't  see  her  till  you  come 
down.  If  she's  quiet,  and  isn't  scandalising  the  serv- 
ants— what  a  nuisance  and  what  tyrants  servants  are ! 
They're  the  spies  Society  sets  on  all  our  actions — let 
her  stay  on  till  after  lunch.  I  wouldn't  overdo  the 
sister  business  in  their  presence.  She  promised  me  last 
night  she  wouldn't.  I'm  going  out  now  to  see  Lavvy. 
.  .  .  Get  her  opinion  on  what  can  be  done  with  Susan." 

Lavvy  was  found  at  her  little  house  in  Fulham,  then 
almost  a  country  village.  She  was  very  bright-eyed, 
keen- featured,  and  sharp  of  tongue,  harrying  her  little 
maid-of -all-work  over  household  duties.  "  George  " 
had  just  started  for  the  river-side  to  take  the  steamboat 
to  Mark  Lane  pier. 


68  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Good  gracious  me !  What  brings  you  here  so 
early?  Nothing  wrong  with  Bella?" 

"  Well  .  .  .  it's  this  way."  And  he  told  of  Susan's 
unheralded  arrival,  and  her  obvious  undesirability  as  a 
guest  on  a  prolonged  stay.  "  I  thought  your  clever 
little  brain  might  find  some  way  out  of  the  difficulty 
if  /  found  the  money-cost  of  the  plan.  This  is  clear : 
she  cannot  stop  with  us — under  present  circumstances 
— and  we  must  be  leaving  for  the  Isle  of  Wight  on 
Friday.  You  and  George  must  come  to  us  later  on. 
Of  course  " — (dubiously) — "  we  might  ask  Susan 
there  .  .  .  but  I  am  so  afraid  of  upsetting  Bella's 
holiday " 

Lawy:  "  I  should  think  you  were.  As  to  me  and 
George.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  kindly  .  .  .  Margate,  p'raps, 
is  more  our  style,  when  George  can  get  his  holiday. 
But  I  won't  say  no,  offhand.  About  Susan.  I  ain't 
so  surprised  as  you  might  think.  Though  I'm  two 
years  younger  than  Bella,  I  know  a  bit  more  about 
family  affairs  than  she  does,  through  keeping  my  eyes 
and  ears  open,  and  not  being  so  easily  taken  in  by  Ma's 
nonsensical  refusals  to  answer  plain  questions.  I  had 
heard  long  ago  that  Susan  used  to  dance  at  Cremorne, 
and  about  her  quarrel  with  a  dreadful,  disreputable 
woman — Kate  Hamilton — who  keeps  a  dancing  place 
in  the  Haymarket.  But  as  she  went  about  under 
another  name  I  didn't  much  bother,  only  hoped  she'd 
keep  herself  to  herself,  an'  leave  us  alone.  There's 
lots  of  respectable  families  same  as  ours  that's  got  a 
Susan  and  says  nothing  about  it.  But  now  she's 
planted  herself  on  you "  (musingly). 

John:  "  I  was  wondering  whether  you  and  George. 
...  Of  course  I  would  pay  all  expenses " 

Lawy:  "  Oh  dear  no !  I'd  sooner  see  her  at  the 
bottom  of  the  river  than  playing  her  tricks  here  and 
reflecting  on  our  good  name  in  Fulham " 


"ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS"     69 

John:  "  Then  your  other  sister?  Because  it  would 
be  cruel  to  force  her  on  your  parents,  just  as  they  are 
moving  to  a  new  neighbourhood — and " 

Lawy:  "  You  mean  Cecilia?  Cissy,  as  we  used  to 
call  her,  till  Ma  revived  her  name  in  full,  saying  it  was 
her  sainted  grandmother's.  I  said  I'd  seen  no  such 
saint  in  the  calendar,  since  the  one  that  used  to  play 
on  a  very  old-fashioned  kind  of  organ  in  Roman  times. 
.  .  .  Well  .  .  .  Cissy  might  agree.  Her  home  is  such 
a  rum  one,  with  the  husband's  medical  contraptions 
and  nonsense  about  phrenology  and  Christadelphi- 
anism.  Susan  couldn't  make  it  much  rummer.  Well, 
you  might  try 

John:  "  Of  course,  there's  Mrs.  Veneering  at 
Calais " 

Lawy:  "  That's  a  bright  idea,  if  you're  willing  to 
fork  out  the  expenses.  I've  never  been  to  France,  not 
having  Bella's  chances,  but  I  should  imagine  Susan's 
goings-on  would  come  natural  to  them.  George,  who 
saw  her  at  Cremorne,  said  she  used  to  dance  the  Cong- 
cong  beautifully.  Though  what  business  he  had  at 
Cremorne,  as  I  said,  I  should  have  liked  to  know,  if 
he'd  been  married  then " 

John:  "  I'll  go  and  see  Cecilia  first.  What's  her 
address  ?  "  (Lavvy  ran  indoors  to  make  sure,  for  much 
of  this  conversation  took  place  in  the  little  front  gar- 
den.) "42,  Mansfield  Road,  Hornsey?  Thank  you." 

A  brief  visit  to  the  City  by  river  steamer  and  a  return 
home  for  lunch.  Susan,  at  lunch,  dressed  in  some  of 
Bella's  clothes,  with  her  hair  done  by  Bella's  maid,  and 
with  a  sobered  demeanour,  seemed  much  more  "  pos- 
sible "  than  when  bedraggled,  alcoholised,  angry,  and 
desperate,  the  night  before.  During  luncheon  John 
looked  at  her  as  much  as  was  compatible  with  good 
manners,  and  decided  that  her  wreckage  of  her  life — 
she  must  now  be  about  twenty-nine — was  due  to  several 


70  THE  VENEERINGS 

causes  which  the  spirit  of  the  'sixties  and  of  earlier 
decades  scarcely  realised  or  could  put  into  words. 
We  should  have  summed  her  up  as  "  over-sexed,  under- 
educated,  and  brought  up  in  a  slovenly  idleness."  She 
ought  either  to  have  been  married  at  eighteen  to  a 
navvy  or  a  prize  fighter,  and  then  have  had  by  him, 
in  due  course,  twelve  children,  and  have  suckled  them 
all — then  she  might  have  become,  in  time,  a  good 
woman ;  or  have  been  educated  to  some  trade  or  pro- 
fession and  have  been  made  to  work  hard  at  it  for  a 
decent  salary.  But  the  type-writer,  the  Post  Office 
service,  telegraphy  for  women,  clerkships,  and  other 
decent  occupations  were  far  below  the  horizon  in  the 
'fifties,  when  she  was  emerging  from  girlhood  into 
womanhood. 

Much  of  this  John  Harmon  dimly  understood.  As 
he  watched  her  he  thought :  "  It  ought  to  be  either 
France,  and  opportunities  to  go  gloriously  to  the  bad, 
out  of  our  sight  and  hearing;  or  some  Colony,  where 
some  good-hearted  man  in  a  red  flannel  shirt  would 
take  her  to  wife,  knock  half  a  dozen  children  out  of 
her,  and  restrict  her  to  tea  as  a  stimulant." 

"Well?  What  do  you  make  of  me?"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  him  when  the  servants  had  finally  left 
the  room. 

"  I  think,"  said  John,  "  you  haven't  had  your  chance 
in  life,  and  I'm  going  to  see  what  I  can  do  for  you. 
Bella,"  he  added,  "  I'm  proposing  to  order  the  carriage 
for  three  o'clock,  and  taking  you  two  out  into  the 
country  for  a  drive." 

At  three  he  gave  instructions  to  his  coachman,  before 
the  ladies  assembled  in  the  hall,  how  to  find  the  Mans- 
field Road,  Hornsey.  When  the  carriage  drew  up 
before  No.  42  Bella  looked  very  surprised;  but,  accus- 
tomed never  to  question  her  husband  from  the  very 
beginning  of  her  married  life  as  to  how,  what,  when, 


"ALL  KIND  FRIENDS  AND  RELATIONS"     71 

why,  and  to  credit  him  with  knowing  his  own  business 
best,  she  said  nothing.  Susan  was  very  silent,  but 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  unfeignedly  this  glimpse  of  the 
country ;  for  Hornsey  sixty  years  ago  was  quite  rural. 
Mansfield  Road  ended  nowhere  in  particular,  though 
it  branched  off  from  the  thoroughfare  to  London. 
No.  42  was  a  chemist's  shop,  disfigured  with  strange 
calico  messages,  related  no  doubt  to  the  proceedings 
next  door.  "  Next  door  "  was  a  small  chapel  of  quite 
exceptional  ugliness  in  outline,  building  material,  and 
windows.  It  was  the  stronghold  of  the  Christ- 
adelphians,  of  whom  Cecilia/'s  husband,  the  sickly 
chemist,  was  the  chief  example.  John  Harmon,  seized 
with  misgivings  as  he  left  his  carriage  to  enter  the 
shop,  said  to  his  coachman  hurriedly :  "  Drive  back 
into  the  main  road  and  wait  for  me  at  the  lane  leading 
to  the  churchyard;  I  shan't  be  long." 

Then  he  entered  the  shop  door.  Bella's  sister  Cecilia 
(as  he  guessed)  and  her  chemist  husband  were  both 
behind  the  counter.  But  for  the  accidental  scalding  of 
one  of  their  children  which  had  just  taken  place  they 
might  have  fastened  on  him  an  attention  there  would 
have  been  no  gainsaying.  Fortunately,  this  child  had 
been  badly  scalded,  and  they  had  only  just  assuaged  its 
yells  with  bandaging  and  lozenges  to  suck;  so  they 
turned  on  the  entrant  a  distracted  gaze  and  an  untidy  at- 
tention. "  I  want  a  packet  of  magnum  bonum  lozenges," 
he  said  breathlessly  (the  carriage  having  driven  on). 

"Magnum  bonum?"  said  Mr.  Davenport.  "We 
have  no  magnum  bonum.  I  no  longer  believe  in  them. 
But  I  can  sell  you  some  of  my  own  manufacture;  the 
Mirabellum."  " 

"  Have  you  got  them  ready,  because  I  am  rather  in 
a  hurry  ?  " 

"Certainly.  One  shilling  a  small  box;  half  a 
crown " 


72  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Oh,  a  shilling  box  will  be  quite  enough," 
He  paid,  snatched  up  a  box,  and  hurried  out  to  catch 
up  his  carriage.     He   felt  he  would  sooner  offer  a 
guarded  hospitality  to  Susie  than  make  himself  known 
to  Cecilia  and  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  V 

CHIEFLY    PARIS  IN    1867 

MISS  SUSIE  WILBRAHAM,  after  all,  went 
down  with  the  John  Harmons  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  John  Harmon,  for  the  time,  was  more  pre- 
occupied over  his  wife's  health  than  any  other  question. 
The  quiet  life  and  gentle  airs  of  Freshwater  Bay  were 
very  different,  even  in  those  distant  days,  from  the  in- 
land Freshwater  which  is  one  of  the  ugliest  and  most 
uninteresting  of  Isle  of  Wight  villages.  At  length, 
when  Bella  had  really  regained  her  health,  and  the  calm, 
summer  weather  of  early  September  was  becoming 
flecked  with  disagreeable  interludes  of  rain  and  cold 
winds,  John  took  Susan  with  him  to  Havre  and  thence 
across  country  to  Calais.  Here  he  placed  her  with  Mrs. 
Veneering  who  was  paid,  in  advance,  a  hundred  pounds 
to  keep  this  ebullient  personality  for  at  least  a  year. 
She  started  life  again  with  a  good  wardrobe  and 
slightly  chastened  manners.  Bella  had  just  tolerated 
her  at  Freshwater  Gap;  had  not  been  unkind;  but  she 
and  John  had  gone  their  own  ways  pretty  much  to- 
gether and  were  really  very  little  hampered  by  Susan's 
presence.  Susan,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  was 
liked  by  her  two-year-old  niece  and  few-months-old 
nephew;  she  was  a  source  of  much  whispered  and  inter- 
esting discussion  between  the  two  nurses,  who  agreed 
generally  that  if  she  was  not  Mrs.  Harmon's  sister  she 
must  be  her  cousin  on  both  sides.  She  was  vaguely 
supposed  to  have  had  an  unfortunate  career  on  the 
stage — which  did  not  lower  her  in  their  opinion — and 
to  be  chiefly  occupied  in  restoring  mind  and  body  under 

73 


74  THE  VENEERINGS 

the  genial  auspices  of  the  master,  and  to  be  of  some 
help  in  amusing  and  interesting  Miss  Hetty  and  Master 
Reggie. 

Susan  rather  liked  the  idea  of  trying  life  from  a 
new  standpoint  with  Mrs.  Veneering  in  France.  It 
pledged  her  to  nothing;  France,  to  her  lustful,  unculti- 
vated mind,  sounded  tempting;  the  chief  abode  of 
pleasure  in  this  life.  If  she  liked  life  with  the  Veneer- 
ings  she  would  stay;  if  she  didn't  she  would  go.  A 
journey  as  far  as  New  Zealand  did  not  attract  her  at 
all,  though  her  brother-in-law  extolled  its  glories  and 
its  advantages.  She  might  think  about  it  later;  but 
meantime  the  chance,  the  possible  chance  of  getting  to 
PARIS  transported  her  with  delight.  She  had  heard 
somewhere,  somehow,  in  her  murky  labyrinths  that  two 
years  hence  there  would  be,  in  Paris,  an  EXHIBITION, 
some  gathering  of  the  clans  far  more  wonderful  and 
dainty  than  the  Great  Exhibition  which  had  now  be- 
come the  suburban  Crystal  Palace;  some  great  oppor 
tunity  for  good-looking  Englishwomen,  not  too  muvl\ 
fettered  by  scruple. 

So  accordingly,  she  departed  for  Villa  les  Acacias  in 
September,  1865,  with  anticipatory  pleasure  rather  than 
with  any  dislike  to  leaving  her  contemptuous  sister  and 
her  genial,  but  quite  unapproachable  brother-in-law. 
Hamilton  Veneering  was  once  more  away  from  his 
wife  and  children  when  she  arrived.  Mrs.  Veneering 
seemingly  resigned  herself,  with  an  occasional  sigh  to 
his  long  absences.  Occasionally  he  sent  her  sums  of 
money  to  buy  a  greater  degree  of  comfort,  or  to  put  on 
one  side  against  new  difficulties.  Her  two  elder  chil- 
dren were  growing  up  strong  and  healthy  —  and 
thoughtful;  they  gave  her  little  trouble.  The  youngest 
boy  was  a  fretful  baby,  but  the  house  was  large  and 
comfortable  and  somewhat  isolated;  and  the  garden 
was  a  delight  to  her.  She  was  gradually  changing  from 
the  empty-headed,  frivolous,  over-dressed,  and  be  jew- 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  75 

elled  woman  of  second-rate  London  Society  into  the 
thrifty  manageress  of  a  farm,  wholly  content  with  her 
three  children,  more  and  more  reconciled  to  the  long 
absences  of  an  uninteresting  husband,  more  and  more 
appreciative  of  France  and  of  the  Roman  Church,  less 
and  less  concerned  with  smug,  Victorian  England. 

Annie  Veneering — as  she  was  coming  to  be  called  by 
Sophie's  influence  —  thoroughly  appreciated  the  hun- 
dred pounds  put  into  her  hands  by  John  Harmon,  as  a 
year's  payment  in  advance  for  looking  after  Susie 
Wilbraham.  Susie's  relationship  to  Bella  was  distinctly 
stated;  but,  for  the  rest,  she  was  given  a  character  of 
unhappiness  in  stage  life  and  need  for  recuperation. 
After  which,  a  fresh  career  on  the  stage  if  opportunity 
offered ;  or  the  joining  of  a  brother  in  one  of  our  newer 
colonies.  The  one  direction  in  which  the  gently  hidden 
influence  of  John  Harmon  was  directed  was  against  her 
return  to  England,  at  any  rate  whilst  Bella  might  feel 
embarrassed  by  a  sister's  struggles  with  the  dusky  sur- 
roundings— then — of  a  stage  career.  The  French  The- 
atre was  evincing  some  inclination  towards  British 
actresses  who  would  undertake  distinctly  British  roles 
in  French  comedies — but  meantime — Mrs.  Veneering 
wanted  a  young  person's  help  with  children  and  pos- 
sibly with  guests;  there  was  the  garden — already  ab- 
sorbent of  much  energy  and  productive  of  some  reve- 
nue. In  short,  Calais  was  in  France  and  half-way  to 
Paris. 

Bella  prolonged  her  stay  at  Freshwater  Gap  till 
October,  so  delightful  was  the  air,  were  the  sunshine, 
the  chalk  cliffs,  the  children's  happiness.  John  had 
once  more  gone  on  to  Belgium  and  Holland  over  his 
drugs,  after  depositing  Susan  at  Calais.  In  mid-Octo- 
ber he  conveyed  a  quite  hearty  wife  and  two  very 
healthy  children  back  to  the  Cavendish  Square  neigh- 
bourhood, and  threw  himself  with  increasing  energy 
into  the  Drug  Question.  Only  one  more  of  Bella's 


76  THE  VENEERINGS 

brothers  and  sisters  remained  to  worry  him :  "  Reggie," 
who  had  drifted  off  from  some  clerical  employment  in 
London  to  be  a  bookmaker's  clerk  in  Birmingham,  in 
1859 :  since  when  nothing  had  been  heard  of  him. 

The  unhappy  Veneering,  in  the  autumn  of  1865,  felt 
himself  more  and  more  occluded  at  Baden-Baden,  at 
any  rate  unutterably  bored.  Yet  his  luck  at  the  Monte 
Carlo  tables  was  so  bad,  and  at  Baden  he  tended  to 
recover.  Alfred  Lammle  was  becoming  so  deep  and 
mysterious,  so  often  in  written  communication  with 
Sophronia,  that  they  had  ceased  to  be  companionable, 
and  more  than  once  he,  Alfred,  had  spoken  so  rudely  to 
his  friend  that  the  latter  had  really  wondered  whether 
"  1865  "  and  his  doubtful  reputation  would  stand  a 
duel,  and  whether  Alfred  was  egging  him  on  to  one. 
He  went  back  to  Calais  at  Christmas,  '65,  and  saw 
Susan  there.  She  at  once  aroused  a  sexual  longing  in 
his  debased  mind,  but  he  was  careful  now  about  his 
entanglements.  As  to  what  she  thought  of  him,  there 
was  no  saying.  She  scarcely  seemed  to  take  much 
notice  of  his  sidelong  looks  and  sighs. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  London?  "  said  his  wife 
in  February  '66 

"  Mr.  Harmon  has  arranged  so  many  of  your  affairs 
that  I  dare  say  he  could  arrange  a  little  more  and  you 
might  positively  enjoy  regular  work  again.  I  don't  say 
I  would  throw  up  this  place  at  once  and  return,  but  I 
would  if  you  really  settled  down  at  home  and  resumed 
work  in  the  City.  We  could  then  find  some  place  in 
Essex,  near  where  your  father  lived,  near  Dunmow — 
I've  always  heard  that  part  well  spoken  of.  I  could 
farm  there  whilst  you  worked  once  more  with  your 
drugs  and  chemicals  in  town.  I  hear  the  business  is 
getting  on  wonderfully,  and  that  Mr.  Wilfer,  old  Mr. 
Wilfer,  is  developing  into  quite  a  wonder." 

"  No !  "  he  answered  in  a  peevish  tone.  "  Harmon 
has  virtually  bought  us  out  to  pay  my  debts — or  some 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  77 

of  them — and  I've  grown  rusty.  More  than  that !  I've 
grown  to  hate  drugs  and  all  about  them.  I've  forgotten 
more  than  I  ever  knew.  My  career  must  be  on  this 
side  now.  I'm  forty-six — too  old  to  start  in  a  business 
again,  which  one  left  some  time  ago;  for  really  after 
we  lived  at  Brompton  I  did  not  work  much  at  the 
office.  Lammle  spoilt  it  all  somehow,  or  his  slut  of  a 
wife  did.  .  .  .  How  are  you  getting  on  with  Susie? 
Seems  a  rum  go  having  her  here?  A  sister-in-law  of 
John  Harmon's?  I  s'pose  he  wanted  her  out  of  the 
way.  A  good-looking  wench.  Been  on  the  stage  you 
think?" 

"  I  don't  think :  I  know  she  has.  But  she  seems  to 
have  had  some  shock  and  doesn't  like  to  talk  about  it. 
She's — here,  go  and  shut  that  door  if  you  want  to  talk 
her  over" — (he  does  so)  "  she's  been  on  the  stage  and 
wants  to  go  back;  and  in  some  moods  she  wants  to  join 
her  brother  in  New  Zealand.  He's  going  to  get  mar- 
ried and  make  his  fortune  out  of  doing  something 
colonial.  Susie  says  she's  seen  some  of  his  letters  to 
Bella  Harmon.  They  didn't  sound  very  attractive,  all 
about  fighting  and  most  shocking  atrocities.  Still  she 
says  the  life  sounded  exciting  and  he  seemed  to  be 
picking  things  up.  Well  if  you're  not  going  to  work 
again  in  Mincing  Lane  and  you  aren't  going  to  settle 
down  here — which  is  what  I  wanted  you  to  do — what 
are  you  going  to  do,  'cause  it's  very  disturbing  to 

me "  And  here  she  trailed  off  into  the  somewhat 

doleful  chapter  of  complaints  which  was  rather  her 
wont,  and  wholly  excusable. 

"  No.  I  think  I  shall  go  back  to  the  Rhine  Valley 
again — and — and  look  about  me.  The  Germans  are  up 
to  several  interesting  things.  I  believe  the  Prussians 
are  going  to  war  with  Austria  to  settle  which  is  to  be 
mistress  over  Germany  .  .  .  but  there  are  other  direc- 
tions in  which  I  think  things  may  develop;  in  any  case 
I'm  ut-ter-ly  sick  of  England;  UTTERLY.  I  now  HATE 


78  THE  VENEERINGS 

London.  You've  no  chance  there  unless  you're  a  swell, 
or  a  swindler — like  Lammle." 

"  Hush,  dear !  You  don't  know  who  might  over- 
hear you !  " 

"  Well  Susan,  or  Susie,  might.  .  .  .  What'd  it 
matter?" 

"  Why,  unless  you  could  prove  it — and  why  should 
you  ?  What  should  we  gain  ?  By  all  means  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  them,  but  I  feel,  somehow,  as 
though  they'd  become  too  powerful  to  make  enemies 
of " 

"  Dessay.  Well !  I  think  I  shall  go  back  to  Baden 
next  month  and  look  about  me.  How  long  does  that 
Wilfer  woman  stay  here?  " 

"  As  long  as  she  likes  and  can  pay  a  hundred  a 
year." 

In  April,  Veneering,  after  occasional  trips  to  Am- 
sterdam and  Rotterdam,  went  back  to  Baden-Baden. 
Already  in  between  these  Dutch  trips,  Susan  Wilbra- 
ham  had  become  his  mistress.  But  only  occasionally 
and  quite  unknown  to  his  wife.  At  the  beginning  of 
June,  Hamilton  returned  for  a  few  days  to  the  Villa 
les  Acacias.  Three  days  after  he  had  left,  Susie  Wil- 
braham  disappeared.  Mrs.  Veneering  had  gone  to 
Marquise  on  some  poultry  business,  imagining  that 
Susie  would,  as  usual,  look  after  things  till  she  re- 
turned. But  on  getting  back  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  there  was  no  Susie ;  only  a  rather  badly-worded 
note  "  I  am  off  for  a  few  months  change  and  praps  a 
return  to  the  stage.  Dident  want  to  bother  you  or  upset 
the  Harmons  by  discussing  it.  I  will  let  you  know  my 
plans  later  on.  I  may  be  going  to  Paris." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  joined  Veneering  at  Baden- 
Baden,  had  fiendish  luck  at  the  tables,  was  often  false  to 
her  protector  and  he  knew  it  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders ;  but  by  following  her  play  he  won.  A  real  Devil's 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  79 

escapade.  The  seven  thousand  pounds  had  been  grad- 
ually reduced  to  little  more  than  three  thousand  by  all 
his  vagaries  at  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo,  at  Spa,  and 
in  Holland.  But  it  now,  even  with  Susie's  demands  on 
it  for  costumes  and  capital,  was  mounting  steadily,  till 
it  actually  reached  to  seven  thousand  once  again.  And 
even  rose  above  it— eight  thousand — nearly  nine  thou- 
sand. This,  and  his  well-attested  banking  account,  re- 
vived or  for  the  first  time,  created  a  certain  amount  of 
respect  for  him  in  South  Germany. 

Annie  Veneering,  hearing  nothing  of  Baden-Baden 
affairs  (which  in  those  days  hardly  got  into  the  English 
or  even  the  French  papers)  knew  nothing  of  these  adul- 
terous developments.  She  had  apprised  John  Harmon 
of  his  sister-in-law's  disappearance — had  even  offered 
to  return  the  unspent  balance  of  the  hundred  pounds. 
But  he  had  bade  her  keep  it  all,  in  case  Susie  turned 
up  again  some  other  day  and  craved  further  hospitality. 
"  Though  Mrs.  Veneering  must  not  consider  herself 
bound,  etc.,  etc."  He  shrewdly  guessed — and  verified 
the  guess — as  to  where  Susie  was.  Veneering,  he  de- 
cided, was  a  pig  ...  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  him,  now  that  the  affairs  of  his  firm  were  trans- 
ferred to  Harmon.  It  was  a  good  job  Veneering  had 
sickened  of  the  drug  business.  They  would  get  on 
better  without  his  presence  in  Mincing  Lane.  His  wife, 
after  all,  was  a  decent  sort,  managing  her  affairs  with 
discretion;  and  his  children — well,  perhaps,  some  day 
something  might  be  done — for  the  eldest  boy,  at  any 
rate. 

As  to  the  Sophie  so  often  mentioned  by  Mrs. 
Veneering — Sophronia  Lammle — she  settled  down  to 
her  duties  in  Paris  during  1866.  Deep  down,  below 
blankets  of  secrecy,  she  was  to  study  Fenianism  in 
Paris,  get  to  know  who  the  Fenians  were  and  what  they 
were  plotting.  This  was  not  over  difficult,  because 


8o  THE  VENEERINGS 

scarcely  one  of  them  could  speak  much  French,  not  even 
those  who  had  had  a  Catholic  education  at  Louvain  or 
elsewhere  in  Flanders.  About  the  only  one  of  them — 
and  he  was  a  much  later  example  —  who  mastered 
French  till  he  came  to  speak  it  like  his  own  tongue,  came 
to  think  in  it,  was  Fergus  O'Connor,  the  six  months' 
lover  of  Mrs.  Warren.  His  elder  brother,  Deirdre,  had 
come  to  Paris  in  1866  and  got  taken  on  as  a  worker  in 
the  Great  Exhibition.  Sophronia — or  had  I  not  better 
now  call  her  by  the  later  diminutive  of  "  Sophie?  " — 
Sophie  Lammle  soon  realised  him  and  got  into  relations 
with  him,  being  very  careful  to  say  little  about  herself 
except  the  Spanish  element  in  her  blood  and  her  dislike 
of  England. 

Poor  Dierdre  was  misplaced  in  Paris.  He  had  had  a 
brief  experience  of  the  United  States,  and  like  nearly 
all  the  Irishmen  of  post- 1815  and  pre-1922  could  not 
master  French.  The  United  States,  subsequent  to 
1845,  did  very  much  for  the  Irish,  but  it  gave  them  the 
White  American's  undying  accent  and  great  inability  to 
speak  any  language  but  English. 

Deirdre's  brother,  of  whom  I  have  written  guard- 
edly in  another  book,  was  eight  years  younger  and  had 
never  crossed  the  Atlantic,  had  come  to  Flanders  when 
he  was  only  seventeen  or  eighteen,  and,  at  a  later  date 
had  become,  under  strange  circumstances,  the  father  of 
Vivien  Warren.  Deirdre,  after  serving  with  the 
Fenians,  had,  under  the  directions  of  their  Colonel 
Fariola,  come  to  Paris,  got  engaged  early  in  1866  by 
the  committee  organising  the  Great  Exhibition,  and 
was  waiting  events  and  instructions. 

I  rather  fancy  he  had  declared  himself  to  be  an 
American,  to  the  American — United  States — section; 
or  perhaps  he  had  been  engaged  by  some  French  depart- 
ment; perhaps  even  his  origin  and  his  motives  may 
have  been  a  little  guessed  by  the  remarkable  Monsieur 
Charlevoix  who  thought  it  better  to  have  him  (more 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  81 

manageable  by  the  clever  Madame  Sophie  Lamelle) 
than  an  older,  ruggeder,  uglier,  harsher  type  from  the 
United  States  or  the  worst  part  of  Ireland.  There  he 
was,  however,  among  the  staff  of  the  Exposition  Inter- 
nationale; with  Berezovski  (nourishing  projects  of 
hatred  against  Russia)  ;  Prucik  going  to  give  it  hot  to 
the  Emperor  Francis  of  Austria-Hungary  if  he  came 
along  and  had  not  previously  helped  Bohemia  a  little 
more  towards  independence;  Casciotto  of  Trieste,  too 
late  to  free  Venice,  so  now  (though  of  Lombard  birth) 
awake  to  the  distress  of  the  Triestino;  Paravesi  who 
hoped  to  assassinate  Pio  Nono  if  he  left  Rome  and 
came  to  Paris;  Aglorio  Vastidao  keen  on  the  Lusita- 
nian  Republic;  Gutierrez  Blasimalco  for  the  Basques 
against  Fat  Isabella  of  Spain;  and  one  or  two  mad 
Southerners,  who  thought  they  could  never  return  to 
the  United  States,  so  would  empty  a  revolver  or  plunge 
a  bowie  knife  into  President  Johnson  or  General  Grant 
if  either  should  be  foolish  enough  to  leave  Washington 
for  Paris  any  time  the  Exhibition  might  be  open. 

Mrs.  Lammle  had  settled  down  to  her  duties  in  Paris 
early  in  1866,  and  took  a  quiet  lodging  not  far  from 
the  Avenue  de  la  Motte-Piquet,  in  Passage  Bosquet. 
Here  she  worked  steadily  at  the  French  language,  know- 
ing that  at  her  age  she  could  never  have  other  than  an 
English  accent;  still  determined  to  be  fluent  of  phrase 
and  to  understand  what  was  said  to  her.  During  the 
day  she  worked  hard  at  preparing  her  loge,  her  location, 
which  by  some  caprice  was  to  represent,  not  a  whole 
department,  but  just  the  district  of  Beam,  a  region,  she 
had  been  told,  specially  connected  with  Henry  IV.  of 
Navarre,  who  had  been  a  famous  king  of  France  and 
with  whose  reign  had  begun  the  "  Ancien  regime,"  the 
advent  of  the  Bourbons  as  the  ruling  family.  The 
Empress  was  reputed — as  she  was,  no  doubt,  a  little 
wearily — to  be  "  tocquee  des  Bourbons  "  and  therefore 
interested  in  Beam.  Certain  it  is,  that  on  the  great  day 


82  THE  VENEERINGS 

of  opening,  on  April  I,  1867 — a  day  of  sunlight  but  of 
wintry  temperature — she,  despite  the  shortening  of  the 
intended  programme,  stopped  outside  one  of  the  two 
"  faces  "  of  the  Beam  loge  and  asked  a  question.  An 
aimless  question,  perhaps,  but  an  amiable  one.  She  was 
not  feeling  very  well  and  was  anxious  about  her  son's 
health.  The  Emperor,  too,  was  so  unwell  that  it  was  an 
effort,  one  that  must  be  made  to  stop  the  impertinences 
of  the  Opposition,  to  come  out  that  day.  He  had  to 
walk  with  a  stick  and  inwardly  wished  himself,  many 
times  over,  in  bed.  "  Que  dis-tu,  ma  chere  Ugenie?  " 
he  inquired  with  amiability. 

"  Je  demande  de  Madame  le  nom  de  cette  plante 
qu'ils  ont  la,  dans  le  p'tit  bassin.  II  me  semble  que  je 
1'ai  vue  dans  les  Pyrenees." 

Sophie  gathered  up  all  her  courage :  it  was  the 
moment  of  her  life. 

"  C'est  le  petit — le  petit — Ah!  je  ne  sais  pas  le  mot 
bearnais — ne  Rhododendron  des  Pyrenees.  II  nous  est 
envoye  parmi  nos — nos — fleurs  sauvages  pour — pour 
faire  les  guirlandes  dont  nous  avons  decore  notre  loge." 

"  Vous  n'etes  pas  franchise,  Madame,  cela  se  voit  tout 
de  suite  de  votre  accent,  mais  vous  servez  a  cet  instant 
la  France  admirablement,  en  nous  demontrant  les  pro- 
duits  de  nos  Pyrenees,"  said  the  Empress,  looking  very 
straight, — some  people  said — others,  very  fixedly — at 
Mme.  Sophie  Lamelle,  and  then  passing  on. 

Her  two  Parisian  assistants  had  evidently  been 
chosen  or  suggested  by  the  mysteriously  powerful 
Mons.  Charlevoix.  Probably  there  were  very  few  edu- 
cated Bearnais  at  Paris  in  those  days,  or  if  there  were 
they  were  more  knit  up  with  other  expositions  of 
Pyrenean  products,  arts,  and  industries.  Beam  was 
more  than  400  miles  from  Paris.  The  stall  "  purement 
fantasque  en  origine  et  but  "  (as  Mons.  Charlevoix  had 
afterwards  informed  the  authorities  of  the  Exhibition) 
was  intended,  more  particularly,  to  exhibit  the  flower 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  83 

resources  of  the  Pyrenees.  The  assistants  provided  for 
Mme.  Sophie  Lamelle  were  two  Parisian  women  on  the 
police  staff,  ready  to  go  anywhere  and  do  anything  at  a 
few  minutes'  notice;  and  some  further  native  workers 
who  were  too  stupid  to  ask  questions  or  make  mischief. 

These  last  were  two  very  muscular  young  women, 
clever  with  flowers,  and  one  "  gros  gaillard,"  lover  to 
both  of  them,  when  he  thought  of  it :  who  did  the  gros- 
ser manual  work,  talked  Basque  and  bad  French. 

Even  in  those  days,  and  indeed  from  1814  onwards, 
there  had  been  British  "  interests  "  in  the  Pyrenees — at 
Pau  over  fox-hunting,  over  the  surveying  and  first 
building  of  the  Pyrenean  railways  which  had  been 
carried  on  by  English  people;  so  it  did  not,  perhaps, 
seem  altogether  strange  that  the  leading  representative 
of  the  flower  industries  of  Beam  should  be  some  kind 
of  Englishwoman — or,  as  she  gently  suggested  without 
telling  a  downright  lie,  a  lady  of  both  Spanish  and  Irish 
origin.  Sophie,  moreover,  in  her  Pyrenean  gala  cos- 
tume, though  she  had  never  been  in  Beam,  looked  more 
Bearnaise  than  her  two  Parisian  assistants  and  nearly 
as  much  so  as  the  three  good-looking  but  coarser-built 
Pyreneans  who  did  the  humbler  work  cf  the  loge. 

One  day,  early  in  May,  Mons.  Charlevoix  strolled 
past  her  loge  and  stopped  to  glance  at  the  bunches  and 
baskets  of  flowers.  It  was  too  early  for  fruit  so  the 
chief  exhibits  of  the  loge  were  flowers,  Pyrenean  plants, 
and  Pyrenean  pottery.  Charlevoix  was  dressed  like  a 
gay  tourist  of  those  days,  partly  because  the  weather 
had  become  warm  and  sunny,  and  partly  in  order  not  to 
look  too  official.  It  was  indeed,  from  his  straw  hat,  not 
impossible  that  he  might  be  English,  a  point  often  a 
matter  of  doubt  to  the  Parisians,  because  to  them  his 
stiff  English  seemed  positively  '  de  Londres.'  "  Vous 
allez  bien,  ma  chere  Bearnaise?  "  he  inquired  gallantly, 
twirling  his  cane  and  adjusting  his  English  straw  hat. 
"  Si  vous  avez  le  temps  et  que  ces  belles  dames  " 


84  THE  VENEERINGS 

(smiles  from  the  Parisian  helpers  who  knew  who 
he  was  all  the  time)  "  que  ces  dames  bearnaises 
vaquent  a  tout  .  .  .  faites,  je  vous  prie,  un  petit  tour 
de  promenade  avec  moi.  Votre  costume  est  si  beau  qu'il 
me  ragaillardera."  Sophie,  who  had  been  making  nose- 
gays from  the  Pyrenean  flowers  in  the  hampers,  handed 
over  her  work  to  one  of  the  smiling  Parisiennes.  Then, 
dusting  her  Bearnais  costume  with  a  fleck  or  two,  she 
joined  Charlevoix  outside  the  lodge.  They  strolled 
without  hurry  to  the  vicinity  of  the  Russian  section  and 
sat  down  in  a  quiet  spot. 

"  Zere  will  be  a  Ball,"  he  said,  in  rather  slow  Eng- 
lish, "  at  your  Embassy  one  day  soon,  near  ze  middle 
of  May.  .  .  .  You  follow  me?  ...  I  will  have  you 
asked  as  one  of  ze  guests,  but  perhaps  by  a  different 
name — perhaps  not.  ...  At  any  rate  you  will  go.  Our 
office  will  pay  for  ze  ball  dress,  which  must  be  dis- 
tinguee  sans  etre  trop  remarquable.  .  .  .  Just  quietly 
— su-perbe — sans  trop  entraver  vos  mouvements.  You 
will  not  dance  unless  I  come  and  suggest  it.  ... 
Well,  zen,  you  must  look  out  hard — oh,  but  harrd  for 
zis — il  a  un  drole  de  nom ! — zis  Deirdre  O'Connor.  I 
— we — are  pret-ty  sure  he  will  come  here  as  waiter. 
.  .  .  Dieu!  Comme  votre  langue  m'epuise,  surtout 
quand  on  ne  peut  pas  lever  la  voix.  .  .  .  parler  aux 
eclats  et  avec  des  gestes.  .  .  .  Let — us  walk  a  little. 
We  nevare  know  when  some  one  may  not  listen." 

They  walked  on.  Presently  they  were  strolling 
through  the  Tunisian  section.  Young  Moors  (or  more 
likely  Jews  dressed  to  look  like  Moors)  were  stringing 
musical  instruments,  painting  crudely,  but  effectively, 
pottery  which  would  afterwards  be  baked;  engraving 
metal  plates.  They  paid  little  attention  to  this  eccentric 
European  couple  of  a  well-dressed  man  (for  his  time) 
and  a  stoutish,  middle-aged  lady  in  a  peasant's  gala 
dress.  Charlevoix  resumed :  "  Seek  for  zis  Deirdre 
whom  you  know  .  .  .  when  did  you  see  him  last? 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  85 

Wed-nes-day  ?  Well  .  .  .  you  suggest  to  him  nossing 
about  you  going  to  Ball  at  Embassy.  But  try  to  find 
out  if  he  is  going  .  .  .  and  how.  .  .  .Et  faites  tout  a 
Tamiable.  ...  I  shall  .  .  .  also  be  zere.  How 
dressed?  I  am  not  sure  just  now,  but  I  will  let  you 
know.  .  .  .  Well  zen,  now  you  .  .  .  know  mos' 
sings  " — (half  whispers) — "  I  sink  it  will  be  ze  seven- 
teens  ...  a  ...  Friday  .  .  .  Drole  de  jour,  par  ex- 
emple!  You  must  commence  to  arrange  your  dress — 
tout  de  suite !  I  will  pay  for  it,  of  course.  It  must  be 
'  choisi,'  pas  trop  remarquable,  de  sorte  que  vous  n'at- 
trayiez  pas  trop  1'attention  la-dessus.  Mais  bien  choisi. 
.  .  .  Yet  it  must  _not  be  such  as  would  embarrass  you. 
You  mus'  be  free  to  move  kwicklee,  si  c'est  necessaire. 
I  will  come  here  a  day  ...  or  ...  two  days  before 
ze  date  and  talk  about  zis.  .  .  .  Je  donnerai  un  coup 
d'ceuil  quelque  part  a  vot'  costume.  .  .  .Tout  est  com- 
pris?  Pour  sur?  Alors — a  tantot,  chere  dame.  En 
sortant  d'ici  regagnez  vot'  loge  sans  trop  d'entrain  et  ne 
dites  pas  mot  de  tout  ceci.  Say  nossing  about  zis,  to 
your  companions.  Ne  vous  fiez  a  personne " 

Sophie's  dress  (I  see  from  an  old  letter)  came  to  be 
something  like  this : 

There  was  what  we  should  call  a  "  jupe  "  or  founda- 
tion— mainly  skirt — of  white  satin,  bordered  with  an 
orange  silk  cord,  with  three  broad  ruches  of  orange  rib- 
bon running  up  each  seam.  Over  this  magnificent 
undergarment  was  worn  a  "  robe  "  of  orange  velvet, 
short  in  front,  open  at  each  side,  and  terminating  a  la 
queue,  and  having  short,  wide  sleeves  lined  with  white 
satin  and  finished  with  short  white  silk  tassels.  The 
corsage  was  cut  rather  low.  Just  inside  the  front  of 
the  bodice  could  be  seen  a  chemisette  of  white  pleated 
muslin.  (I  write  these  lines  from  Sophie's  notes,  in 
ink  now  brown,  without  quite  understanding  the  gen- 
eral effect,  but  am  given  to  understand  that,  with  its 
attendant  coiffure  of  interlacing  gilded  chains  confining 


86  THE  VENEERINGS 

with  neatness  her  splendid  black  hair,  it  was  considered 
in  general — by  Mons.  Charlevoix  and  public  opinion — 
to  be  "  quiet,  distinguished,  and  not  too  provocative  of 
notice,  while  asserting  a  certain  aristocracy  of  taste.") 

Her  invitation  to  the  great  Ball  at  the  British 
Embassy  had  nothing  extraordinary  about  it.  The 
engraved  wording  was  in  French,  and  inserted  in  obvi- 
ously French  handwriting  was  her  name :  "Madame 
Alfred  Lamelle."  At  the  head  of  the  invitation  it  was 
intimated  that  Their  Majesties  the  Emperor  and  the 
Empress,  Their  Royal  Highnesses  the  Prince  of  Wales 
and  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh  were  expected  to  be  present. 

As  instructed  by  Mons.  Charlevoix,  Sophie  had  really 
been  admitted  on  the  scene  a  few  minutes  prior  to  the 
opening  of  the  doors  to  the  earlier  of  the  real  guests. 
The  rest  of  her  colleagues  from  the  Ministry  of  Police 
and  its  allied  departments  were  three  or  four  women  of 
undoubted  physical  strength,  combined  with  orderly 
attractions  and  skirts  of  moderate  length,  and  about 
thirty-five  male  police  agents  wearing  admirably-cut 
evening  clothes,  and  sufficiently,  but  not  obtrusively, 
decorated  with  French  or  foreign  orders.  They  were 
tall,  powerful  men,  who  mostly  stood,  during  the 
evening,  in  an  unobtrusive  way  and  place — unless  their 
professional  services  should  be  called  for.  All  alike 
had  a  small  passe-partout  key  on  a  watch  chain  or  in  a 
pocket.  They  had  been  told  to  feel  at  ease,  to  feel  it 
permissible  to  go  anywhere  in  the  Embassy  or  in  the 
Embassy  Garden,  but  not  without  necessity  to  make 
any  display  of  this  permeability.  The  Ambassador  and 
Ambassadress,  entering  the  Great  Ball  Room  "  pour  se 
satisfaire  d'un  coup  d'ceuil,"  coldly  bowed  to  them, 
knowing  by  the  hour  they  were  not  the  real  guests. 
They  conversed  about  "  cases  "  in  undertones. 

Then  the  hour  struck.  The  great  gates,  the  great 
doors,  were  thrown  open ;  there  was  infinite  fuss  and  a 
subdued  clamour  of  persons  of  high  degree  arriving 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  87 

and  knowing  "  qu'il  fallait  se  ranger  "  before  the  Roy- 
alties appeared  with  the  Ambassador  and  Ambassa- 
dress. For  a  moment  they  would  glance  at  Sophie  and 
her  companions,  a  little  surprised  to  see  people  already 
there.  "Tiens!  je  nous  croyais  absolument  les  pre- 
miers," some  puzzled  young  officer  would  say.  For  the 
most  part  they  were  taken  to  be  guests  staying  with  the 
Embassy. 

Where  was  Deirdre?  Sophie's  little  passe-partout 
enabled  her  to  pass  almost  anywhere,  and  if  it  were 
shown  or  hinted  at,  to  have  effect  in  the  interviewing  of 
superior  servants  or  of  any  other  police  officer.  He — 
Deirdre — did  not  seem  to  be  among  the  extra  waiters 
outside  the  domestic  staff  of  the  Embassy. 

At  last  she  recognised  him  in  the  orchestra,  the  huge 
orchestra  which  was  commencing  to  play  "  Partant 
pour  la  Syrle  "  as  the  Emperor  and  Empress,  the  Prince 
of  Wales  and  Duke  of  Edinburgh,  the  Ambassador 
and  Ambassadress,  and  the  rest  of  the  princely  and 
diplomatic  guests  passed  slowly,  gracefully,  serenely 
into  the  Ball  Room.  Deirdre's  burning  eyes  in  his  pale 
face  were  not  fixed  on  the  sheet  of  music  opposite  his 
violin;  they  were  turned  on  the  Prince  of  Wales.  .  .  . 
Sophie  took  the  arm  of  one  amongst  the  forty  detec- 
tives in  the  guise  of  a  French  noble — just  for  a  moment 
hesitating,  then  yielding  with  a  courteous  smile  his 
attention  when  he  saw,  projecting  from  her  glove,  the 
angle  of  her  passe-partout. 

"  Deirdre,"  she  said  in  English,  as  they  pressed  up  to 
and  past  the  rail  round  the  orchestra,  "  so  pleased  to  see 
you  here.  .  .  .  Memorable  occasion,  isn't  it?  I'm  en- 
joying it  so  much.  As  soon  as  you  can  get  away  from 
your  duties,  come  to  me.  I  shan't  be  dancing,  I  think — 
at  any  rate,  not  at  present,  while  the  Royalties  are 
here " 

Then    thanking   her   policier   partner    in   her    best 


88  THE  VENEERINGS 

French,  she  took  a  chair  as  near  to  the  orchestra  as  pos- 
sible, and  kept  constantly  looking  at  Deirdre.  During 
these  minutes,  which  seemed  to  be  hours,  while  fanning 
herself  with  her  white  lace  fan,  she  kept  her  eyes  nearly 
always  on  Deirdre's  face.  She  was  seized  with  a  hor- 
rible dread  that  if  she  got  up  and  strolled  away  Deirdre 
would  do  something  desperate  to  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
who  was  dancing  a  quadrille  just  then  with  the  Em- 
press as  his  partner. 

At  last  this  Imperial  and  Royal  quadrille,  with  its 
admixture  of  princes  and  peers,  came  to  an  end.  The 
partners  paced  round  the  respectful  circle.  The  eyes  of 
the  Empress  met  those  of  the  half -frightened  woman 
who  had  risen  from  her  chair,  but  seemed  to  be  trying 
with  her  back  hair  to  keep  Deirdre  mesmerised.  The 
Empress  was  mostly  between  him  and  the  prince  he 
seemed  to  threaten.  After  this  instant's  gaze,  Eugenie's 
beautiful  eyes  sought  other  faces,  and  exchanged  smiles 
for  solemn  reverences.  At  last  it  was  only  her  long 
curls  at  the  back  of  her  head,  her  lovely  shoulders,  and 
graceful  back  that  Sophie  saw.  She  turned  her  face 
round  to  that  of  the  livid  Deirdre.  Through  hypno- 
tism, hesitation,  or  cowardice,  he  had  missed  his  chance 
of  a  sensational  shot  at  the  Heir  to  the  British  Empire. 
.  .  .  She  walked  to  the  orchestral  rail.  "  You  are  not 
well,"  she  said  in  English,  "  ask  permission  to  with- 
draw. I  will  wait.  Come  with  me  into  the  garden  and 
recover  yourself."  For  a  moment  she  looked  at  the 
innumerable  guests  who  were  now  surging  towards  the 
middle  of  the  great  room.  The  Imperial  and  Royal 
Quadrille  being  over  they,  with  greater  abandon,  were 
to  waltz,  schottische,  polk,  or  mazurk.  The  Royalties 
were  drawing  off,  more  to  the  end  of  the  room,  to  sit 
and  talk.  Deirdre  joined  Sophie,  and  she  led  him,  for 
he  seemed  ill,  out — by  degrees — into  the  garden,  which 
passed  from  the  back  of  the  house  towards  the  Champs 
Elysees. 


CHIEFLY  PARIS  IN  1867  89 

"  I  will  see  you  to  the  very  gate  and  open  it — if  it  is 
locked.  But  if  you  have  any  desire  to  live,  any  shred  of 
faith — for  I  can't  possibly  explain  out  of  doors  in  a 
ball  dress,  and  in  a  place  where  any  one  may  come  upon 
us  in  an  instant,  how  I  am  here  and  why — you  will  go 
back  to  your  lodgings,  pack  up,  and  start  off  by  a  morn- 
ing train  for  Dieppe  or  Havre.  Telegraph  to  me  where 
you  are  staying  at  either  place,  and  I  will  endeavour  to 
send  you  there  a  passport  if  you  have  not  one,  and  the 
means  to  purchase  a  ticket  back  to  the  States.  I  can 
think  of  nothing  else  at  the  moment.  Here  we  are. 
Don't  stop  at  anything;  don't  run,  but  otherwise  .  .  . 
bolt." 

There  were  several  police  and  gendarmes  on  the 
lonely,  shaded  walk  outside,  and  they  cast  round  eyes 
on  this  handsome,  gorgeously-dressed  woman  talking 
in  English.  Still,  she  was  seemingly  at  home,  and  she 
seemingly  talked  in  English.  Deirdre  flitted  hatless 
into  the  shadows.  .  .  .  Sophie  was  nearly  indoors 
again,  but  at  the  garden  entrance  she  ran  into  Charle- 
voix.  Rather  adroitly  she  swooped  on  the  inside  of  the 
door,  and  confronted  him  from  the  inside.  He  was 
querulous.  "  You  take  sings  wiz  a  high  hand,  Ma- 
dame  "  he  was  beginning.  "  Sh!  "  she  exclaimed, 

indicating  with  a  slight  gesture  a  round-eyed  young 
Secretary  of  Legation,  who  was  wondering  what  the 
doose  these  foreigners  were  up  to,  but  it  was  altogether 
a  rum  occasion,  and  extraordinary  liberties  were  being 
granted  to  the  French  police. 

Charlevoix  and  Sophie  passed  on  till  they  found 
themselves  in  the  temporary  quietude  of  some  Secre- 
tary's room,  not  far  from  the  Ball  Room.  Here,  in  the 
dusk,  softly  lit  by  turned-down  gas,  she  resumed 
speaking. 

"  I  may  have  acted  hastily,"  she  said,  "  but  I  know 
something  of  this  young  man.  He  is  more  fool  than 
knave,  and  better  fitted  to  write  a  silly  poem  than  to  fire 


90  THE  VENEERINGS 

a  pistol.  All  my  instincts  tell  me  that  it  is  better  policy 
for  you  to  give  him  this  one  more  chance.  Let  him  go 
away,  to  England,  Ireland,  America,  where  he  will; 
he'll  scarcely  trouble  you  again ;  at  any  rate,  for  a  year 
or  so.  He  had  his  chance,  and  missed  it.  I  think  partly 
because  I  perpetually  got  between  him  and  his  aim.  He 
was  altogether  a  fool!  Why  dream  of  using  a  pistol! 
However,  there  it  is!  I  could  swear  he  won't  trouble 
you  again." 

"  I  understand.  Still,  ce  roman  que  vous  me  contez 
fera  pauvre  apparence  dans  mon  compte-rendu  au 
Ministere.  Cependant  ...  il  ...  s'en  .  .  .  est  .  .  . 
alle.  Je  me  satis ferai  qu'il  parte  de  la  gare  St.  Lazare 
demain — ou  plutot  ce  matin.  S'il  ne  part  pas,  nous 
saurons  qu'il  est  plus  malin  que  toi." 

Half  in  admiration  he  tutoyerd  the  clever  woman. 
For  her  part,  she  was  a  little  inclined  to  cry.  She  had 
never — as  you  know — been  able  to  play  a  villain's  part 
all  through.  Deirdre  was  a  stagey  fool,  but  she  pitied 
him.  Why  were  the  Irish  like  that,  a-dream  always 
about  something,  something  not  practical?  What 
earthly  good  to  Ireland  would  be  the  wounding  or 
assassination  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  the  presence  of 
the  Empress  ?  She  had  more  or  less  guessed  his  secret 
from  the  first  time  they  met,  a  year  before.  .  .  .  Well 
.  .  .  p'raps,  after  all,  he  would  settle  down  in  the 
States,  or — more  sensible  still — in  Ireland. 


CHAPTER  VI 
I/EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867 

OUT  of  all  the  band  of  intentional  or  possible  politi- 
cal assassins  whom  I  mentioned  in  a  previous 
chapter — Deirdre  O'Connor  for  Ireland,  Berezovski 
for  Poland,  Prucik  for  the  Chekhs,  Casciotto  for 
Trieste,  Paravesi  for  Rome,  Aglorio  Vastidao  for 
Lusitania,  Gutierrez  Blasimalco  for  the  Basque  peas- 
ants, and  the  lean,  falcon-eyed,  obsessed,  and  wearisome 
Southerners  who  couldn't,  and  never  would  be  able  to, 
speak  anything  but  American-English,  and  still  wanted 
to  divide  the  United  States  in  favour  of  negro  slavery — 
the  only  one  whose  pistol  really  did  get  discharged  was 
Berezovski,  who  fired  at  the  carriage  containing  the 
Emperor  Alexander  II.  on  June  6,  1867.  He  only,  I 
believe,  succeeded  in  shooting  through  the  nostrils  of 
the  carriage  horses  and  injuring  his  own  hand.  But  he 
raised  a  great  to-do,  and  incidentally  benefited  Mme.  de 
Lamelle's  position ;  for  it  was  privately  recorded  in  her 
favour  how  cleverly,  and  without  scandal,  she  had 
averted  any  such  attempt  on  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
What  happened  to  Berezovski  I  have  never  explored 
sufficiently  to  find  out  or  to  remember ;  I  expect  he  was 
not  executed.  But  the  excitement,  and  the  lack  of  popu- 
lar sympathy  with  the  attempt  (except  on  the  part  of 
certain  politicians  of  the  Opposition,  just  beginning 
their  careers,  who  occasionally  exclaimed  "  Vive  la 
Pologne!")  somewhat  deterred  the  other  threateners 
and  attempters,  so  that  they  gradually  faded  away; 
-.vhile  Sophie  distinctly  rose  in  Mons.  Charlevoix's  esti- 
mation. Indeed,  had  there  not  been  an  Alfred  in  exist- 

91 


92  THE  VENEERINGS 

ence  and  occasionally  in  evidence — quietly  prospering  in 
a  rather  nefarious  yet  legal  way — he  might  even  have 
proposed  marriage.  Unable  to  do  that,  and  Alfred  be- 
ing very  seldom  in  Paris  or  en  evidence,  he  suggested 
less  licit  arrangements,  which  Sophie,  conscious  now  of 
her  power,  gracefully  evaded. 

She  had  long  before  decided  that  she  would  stick  to 
her  bargain  with  the  Ministry  of  Police,  to  see  the  Ex- 
hibition "  through  " ;  to  assist  in  watching  against  such 
attempts  as  Berezovski's  until  the  Exhibition  doors 
were  closed  at  the  end  of  October.  After  that?  Mar- 
ried life  with  Alfred  was  no  longer  a  possibility.  She 
loathed  the  idea  too  intensely.  Already  there  was,  by 
amicable  arrangement,  complete  separation  of  fortunes. 
He  had  succeeded  in  pacifying  his  creditors  in  England ; 
he  was  free  to  go  back  there  at  any  time,  but  he  now 
much  preferred  to  live  abroad,  mainly  at  Monaco.  He 
was  acquiring  there  a  valuable  reputation  for  tolerable 
honesty,  consistent  with  pigeon-shooting,  orderly  gam- 
bling, and  a  mysterious  connection  with  "  les  Affaires." 
Sophie  had  always  retained  her  father's  bequest  of  the 
£115  annuity.  She  had,  during  the  Exhibition  time, 
invested  about  £4,000  as  her  share  of  their  joint  profits, 
leaving  her  Alfred  with  £6,000  on  which  to  face  the 
world;  and  at  the  same  time  she  now  received  a  salary 
and  allowances.  They  were  aware  that  Hamilton 
Veneering  had  been  making  money  at  Baden-Baden, 
and  also  making  a  fool  of  himself  with  an  English 
actress  of  poor  character,  who  was  now  supposed  to 
have  quitted  him  and  come  to  Paris,  to  commence  a 
career  of  profligacy  amid  the  splendours  of  the 
Exhibition. 

Alfred  Lammle,  however,  though  he  might  not  seem 
rich,  had  got  hold  of  one  or  two  good  things  at  Monaco- 
Monte  Carlo;  and  if  he  did  not  lose  his  head,  or  play 
the  fool,  he  might  yet  retire  in  his  old  age  on  a 
sufficiency. 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867       93 

One  day,  at  the  end  of  July,  when  the  Exhibition 
was  becoming  exceedingly  hot  and  the  great  people  of 
Paris  were  flocking  to  the  sea-coasts  and  the  mountains, 
to  their  ancestral  homes  and  to  Switzerland;  and  the 
Great  Exhibition  was  being  crowded  by  French  peas- 
ants, English  tourists,  and  strange  beings  from  Ger- 
many, Austria,  Italy,  and  Spain,  there  paused  in  front 
of  Sophie's  loge,  on  the  Rue  de  Paris  side,  a  party  of 
three  English  people :  an  ample  elderly  man  of  great 
pomposity,  having  on  his  arm  an  ample  middle-aged 
woman,  and  next  to  the  woman  an  evident  daughter, 
slim,  rather  peaky,  and  rather  uglily  dressed.  Why 
they  had  stopped  there  they  hardly  knew;  perhaps  be- 
cause Sophie's  loge,  with  one  side  facing  the  charming, 
foliaged,  fountained  Central  Garden,  and  the  other  the 
busy  Rue  de  Paris,  looked  restful;  the  nosegays  of 
Pyrenean  plants  were  compact  and  not  expensive  and 
full  of  sweet  odours,  the  pottery  was  quaint,  and  also 
cheap;  none  of  the  objects,  indeed,  were  dear,  and  all 
were  clearly  marked,  and  Sophie,  who  happened  to  be 
there,  was  becomingly,  rather  showily  dressed,  and  so 
much  filled  out  and  tranquillised  that  she  was  positively 
handsome ;  at  any  rate,  very  well  made  up.  She  recog- 
nised them  at  once.  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss  Podsnap.  To 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Podsnap  her  face  seemed  vaguely  famil- 
iar, but,  of  course,  was  utterly  irreconcilable  with  her 
position.  They  did  not  know  where  "  Beam  "  was, 
but  labels  about  the  place  connected  it  somehow  with 
the  Pyrenees,  and  the  Pyrenees  were  a  chain  of  moun- 
tains separating  France  from  Spain. 

Georgiana  Podsnap,  inspired  by  love,  broke  through 
the  veil :  "  It's  Sophronia!  "  she  exclaimed  with  a  sub- 
dued shriek,  "  Sophronia,  whom  I  haven't  seen  for  four 
years.  .  .  .  How  .  .  .  how  wonderful."  Her  parents 
at  once  decided  to  withdraw,  but  Georgiana  rebelled. 
After  all,  by  now  she  was  twenty-three,  and  had  come 
into  her  grandmamma's  money  —  twenty  thousand 


94  THE  VENEERINGS 

pounds  —  and  was  paying  her  proportion  of  the  ex- 
penses of  this  tour  in  France,  with  the  Great  Exhibition 
as  its  main  object.  "  Sophronia!  Oh !  .  .  .  Oh ! 
.  .  .  How  lovely ! " 

"  My  dear  Georgy !  Of  course  I  recognise  you," 
said  Madame  de  Lamelle — (as  she  was  more  or  less  de- 
ciding to  describe  herself,  by  arrangement  with  Alfred 
and  with  the  Minister  of  Police — no  Frenchman  could 
ever  spell  or  pronounce  "Lammle") — "Would  you 
like  to  come  in  here,  with  or  without  your  parents,  and 
rest  a  little  while  ?  It  is  very  hot  outside.  I  can  even 
give  you  a  cold  sorbet  if  you  are  thirsty " 

"  Oh  yes!  Oh  yes,  I  will,"  said  the  impulsive  girl, 
who  actually  grew  better  looking  as  she  gazed  on  the 
one  woman  who  had  ever  called  forth  love  in  her  soul. 
She  was  so  determined  that  her  parents — puffing  very 
much — could  only  follow.  Presently  they  were  all 
comfortably  seated  in  the  ample  loge,  and  a  slight,  but 
polite,  introduction  had  been  effected  with  the  two 
Parisian  assistants.  One  of  these  kindly  saw  to  the 
ordering  of  a  tray  of  sorbets  and  sponge  biscuits.  Mr. 
Podsnap,  though  still  stupidly  pompous,  was  becoming 
a  little  more  reassured.  Evidently  this — this — woman 
spoke  good  French  and  was  in  a  recognised  position. 
Her  dress  was  rather  extraordinary,  and  much  too 
short  over  the  ankles,  but  it  was  a  "  costume,"  a  word 
which  at  the  present  time  and  circumstances  sanctified 
much. 

Mme.  de  Lamelle,  who  was  really  getting  quite  clever 
at  thought  guessing,  said  to  the  puffing  Mr.  Podsnap : 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  wondering  all  this  time  what  has 
become  of  Alfred?  Well,  he  was  with  me  last  week. 
He  has  worked  very  hard,  poor  fellow,  since  you  and  I 
last  met,  and  his  affairs,  temporarily  affected  by  the 
victory  of  the  North  over  the  South,  have  gradually 
got  right  again.  You  may  have  seen  or  heard  some- 
thing of  him  in  London  recently?  "  (Mr.  Podsnap  had 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867       95 

not,  but  bowed  pompously.)  "  He  has  been  there  at 
intervals  dealing  with  affairs  and  adjusting  his  own 
matters  of  business.  But  I  am  afraid  we  shall  never  be 
tempted  back  to  England  to  live.  The  climate — is — 
really — well,  there  it  is!  However,  I  am  now  much 
interested  in  Pyrenean  developments,  and  Alfred  also. 
.  .  .  Are  you  sure  you  won't  come  and  have  a  meal 
with  me  at  the  restaurant?  It  is  a  little  late  for  what 
the  French  call  dejeuner;  but  we  would  go  to  the  Eng- 
lish restaurant,  where  you  can  have  a  regular  British 
lunch  at  orthodox  hours — half-past  one?  Come,  Mr. 
Podsnap,  a  steak  and  bitters  ?  I'm  sure  you're  patriotic 
to  a  degree,  and  although  you  may  prefer  to  drink  wine 
at  home,  you  would  prefer  British  ale  abroad  .  .  .  and 
floury  potatoes  ?  What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  Podsnap  ?  " 

Mrs.  Podsnap  glanced  at  her  husband's  face,  and 
seeing  a  yielding  in  it,  turned  with  some  graciousness, 
and  replied  :  "  Really,  Mrs. — er — Lammle — it's  very 
kind.  We  must  confess  to  feeling  rather  strangers 
here,  though  they've  made  us  very  comfortable  at  our 
hotel — and — well,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  a  real 
English  meal — not  but  what  we  haven't  for  years  pre- 
ferred French  cookery  at  our  home  in  London.  It 
would  be  rather  nice,  and  I'm  sure  our  little  girl  would 
be  enraptured." 

Georgiana  was  already  seated  by  Mme.  de  Lamelle, 
and  looked  up  in  her  face  and  smiled.  The  Lamelle 
was  a  case-hardened  creature.  Georgiana  was  peaky 
and  almost  plain,  but  something  about  her  unquestion- 
ing love  that  refused  to  regard  or  believe  in  any  tarnish 
on  the  object  of  her  affection  had  always,  since  their 
first  meeting,  pierced  the  elder  woman's  contemptuous, 
bitter  nature. 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what.  You  go  a  small 
round — don't  go  far  away  and  get  lost!  Here  is  a 
card  of  mine ;  show  that  to  any  one  of  the  attendants  or 
police  if  you  can't  remember,  and  he  will  lead  you  back 


96  THE  VENEERINGS 

here.  I  will  go  to  my  rooms  and  change.  I  look  rather 
a  figure  of  fun  dressed  up  as  a  Pyrenean  country- 
woman. Then  I  will  be  back  here  by  one-thirty  and 
take  you  out  to  lunch." 

On  these  terms  they  parted  for  three-quarters  of  an 
hour.  The  Podsnaps,  for  fear  of  complications, 
lounged  and  sat  quite  near  to  the  Rue  de  Paris  in  the 
Central  Garden.  At  half -past  one  all  four  met  again 
outside  the  Loge  de  Beam,  and  Sophie  took  them  over 
to  the  English  section  and  ordered  a  thoroughly  Eng- 
lish lunch,  and  English  beer  for  Mr.  Podsnap ;  French 
wines  for  Mrs. ;  and  lemonade  for  Georgy  and  herself. 

After  this  the  Podsnaps  gradually  became  tiresome. 
They  knew  very  few  people  in  Paris,  they  went  timidly 
on  a  few  excursions  to  see  other  places  in  France,  with 
a  pursy  guide,  hired  from  the  hotel,  who  took  care  they 
got  an  English  diet  as  much  as  possible,  and  that  they 
only  saw  what  he  thought  it  would  be  good  for  them  to 
see.  They  were  back  in  Paris  again  in  the  middle  of 
August,  halting  for  a  day  or  two,  preparatory  to  return- 
ing by  way  of  Calais.  Georgiana  insisted  on  their 
writing  to  Mme.  de  Lamelle  at  the  Exhibition,  telling 
her  they  were  back,  and  asking  whether  she  could  spare 
the  time  to  go  sight-seeing  with  them  a  little. 

Sophie  de  Lamelle  (who  was  beginning  to  think  she 
really  was  Sophie  de  Lamelle)  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 
She  was  touched  a  little  at  the  thought  of  Georgy 's 
devotion;  but,  after  all,  Georgy  now  had  her  separate 
fortune,  and  had  grown  up  a  little  and  asserted  herself 
a  trifle,  so  that  her  parents  no  longer  so  strongly  con- 
trolled her  horizon ;  Mr.  Podsnap  was  becoming  a  trifle 
ga-ga,  and  his  wife  was  also  weakening,  and,  from  her 
point  of  view,  they  didn't  much  matter  whether  they 
lived  or  died,  though  she  was  a  little  pleased  to 
find  that  Georgy,  so  far,  had  escaped  fortune-hunters 
in  marriage. 

However,  she  decided — to  please  Georgy — that  she 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867       97 

would  give  them  one  day,  or  at  any  rate,  one  afternoon, 
before  relegating  them  to  the  background  of  her  mind. 

The  fact  was — among  other  facts  crowding  into  her 
life — she  had  made  John  Harmon's  acquaintance  at  the 
Exposition  Universelle.  Whilst  the  Podsnaps  were 
touring  that  portion  of  France  which  lay  within  six 
hours  of  railway  travel  round  Paris,  Harmon,  having 
waited  till  the  Exhibition  buildings  had  grown  rela- 
tively quiet  from  the  attacks  of  Government  person- 
ages and  institutions,  was  going  carefully  through  the 
products  on  the  Champs  de  Mars  which  had  to  do  with 
drugs  and  perfumes.  He  wished  to  see  what  relation 
they  bore  to  the  wares  stocked  by  the  remodelled  firm 
of  Harmon  and  Veneering;  and  was  specially  interested 
in  the  American  drugs  shown  by  a  New  York  firm — 
Corness  and  Crabtree. 

For  reasons  not  very  evident,  possibly  anticipatory, 
he  had  replaced  the  name  of  Veneering  in  the  firm.  It 
may  be,  with  his  strong  sense  of  justice,  he  retained 
some  regard  for  the  attempts  made  along  really  novel 
lines  by  Veneering,  between  1850  and  1864,  to  mod- 
ernise medicine;  and  he  really  respected  Mrs.  Veneer- 
ing, who  hadlried,  between  1864  and  1867,  to  put  order 
into  their  affairs,  and  whose  father  and  father's  capital 
had  once  stood  as  the  main  support  of  the  firm.  Some 
such  reflections  jointly  moved  him  to  do  this ;  otherwise, 
he  wished  to  have  no  more  concerns  in  common  with 
the  disreputable  Hamilton. 

Harmon,  also,  at  the  Exhibition  had  been  drawn  to 
stare  at  the  Loge  de  Beam,  and  had  become  interested 
in  its  Pyrenean  products.  A  blunder  here,  a  shrewd 
guess  there,  had  revealed  to  him  in  its  principal  keener 
(Mme.  Sophie  de  Lamelle),  the  "  Sophronia  Lammle," 
who  had  made  a  brief  sensation  in  second-rate  London 
as  the  clever  wife  of  an  unscrupulous  "  financier."  He 
had  even  seen  her  in  the  London  of  the  early  'sixties 
on  some  one  or  other  occasion;  but  it  was  little  more 


98  THE  VENEERINGS 

than  chance  and  righteous  inquisitiveness  which  re- 
vealed her  again  in  the  altered  and  improved  personage 
charged  with  a  French  location  in  the  Great  Exhibition. 

"  How  do  you  do — er — Mrs.  Lammle?  "  he  said  to 
her  one  day — one  very  hot  day — in  August. 

"  I  am  very  well,  thank  you,  Mr.,  Mr.  .  .  .  Let  me 
look  at  you  well.  .  .  .  Mr.  Rokesmith.  .  .  .  No !  I'm 
wrong  there — Mr.  Harmon?  That's  it;  Mr.  Harmon, 
formerly  Mr.  Boffin's  secretary.  I  remember  every- 
thing now,  though  much  of  it  dates  from  eighteen 
sixty-two,  sixty-three.  But,  of  course,  as  John  Har- 
mon I  have  heard  much  of  you,  so,  also,  has  my  hus- 
band; Alfred,  you  know.  He,  by  the  bye,  has  gone 
away  recently  to  a  cooler  place  than  this !  At  least  an 
airier  place.  Why  don't  I  go?  Because  I'm  bent  on 
keeping  a  contract.  Such  a  rare  feature  in  one's  char- 
acter nowadays,  isn't  it?  " 

"  But  I  didn't  know,"  he  answered,  "  you  were  so 
interested — and  I  am  sure  so  competently  interested — 
in  the  Pyrenees.  Shows  how  ignorant  we  all  are!  I've 
been  hanging  about  this  Exhibition  some  three  weeks, 
and  have  often  glanced  at  this  delightful  lodge,  and 
have  approved  your  very  practical  way  of  illustrating 
its  contents.  I  rather  fancy  you  know  Mrs.  Veneering 
— at  a  place  near  Calais  ?  I  dare  say  she  has  told  you  I 
have  taken  over  her  husband's  drug  house  in  Mincing 
Lane?  I  always  had  somewhat  of  an  interest  in  drugs 
and  medicines,  and  I  believe  they  have  a  great  future 
before  them.  Must  be  interested  in  something,  don't 
you  know!  And  there  is  such  a  respectability  about 
drugs!  Yes,  and  what  most  people  don't  realise,  such 
a  romance.  I  believe  we  are  going  to  heal  every  one  of 
their  pains  and  distraught  minds — in  time." 

"Are  you?  How  nice.  The  only  drug  I  believe  in, 
to  any  extent,  is  money.  If  you  could  set  up  every  one 
with  an  income  of  not  less  than  £200  a  year  nearly  all 
sin,  sorrow,  and  ill-health  would  be  swept  away." 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867       99 

"  I  wonder  if  it  would?  I  think  the  more  certain 
path  is  along  the  line  of  medicines.  I've  been  looking 
at  Corness  and  Crabtree's  show.  Quite  novel.  But 
how  we  grope !  I  see  that  apparently  you  have  two  very 
capable-looking  assistants.  Would  it  be  irreverent  to 
ask  you  out  to  have  a  cup  of  tea?  " 

"  No.  It  would  not.  Though  if  my  friends  here 
had  not  perfectly  angelic  dispositions,  they  might  think 
so;  for  I  am  rather  often  away  from  my  stall." 

( Here  she  conversed  for  a  moment  with  her  two  cos- 
tumed Parisiennes,  who  smilingly  acquiesced  in  what 
she  said.) 

"  Now  I  am  free,  but  if  you  are  going  to  give  me  tea 
at  any  distance,  I  think  I  had  better  change  out  of  my 
Bearnais  costume " 

"  Will  it  matter  ?  And  as  regards  place,  I  don't  mind 
how  near,  so  long  as  the  tea,  coffee,  or  chocolate  is 
drinkable.  You  are  better  able  than  I  am  to  choose  the 
place,  and  if  you  have  chosen  it  you  cannot  complain. 
Where  we  are  at  present  is  as  hot  as  Africa  in  the  hot- 
test season." 

She  issued  from  the  Loge  de  Beam  and  led  him 
through  this  court  and  that  garden  to  a  charming  re- 
treat behind  the  British  section.  It  was  purposely  not 
made  known — as  a  tea-room — though  no  respectable- 
looking  person  would  be  questioned.  Still,  it  was  in- 
tended more  for  persons  connected  with  the  Exhibition 
or  frequenting  it  for  business  purposes  rather  than  mere 
sight-seeing.  Here  you  might  sit  in  relative  quiet  and 
have  a  real  English  tea,  so  far  as  such  an  institution 
existed  in  1867,  before  "  afternoon  tea  "  was  definitely 
born  and  named. 

Sophie  ordered  the  meal.  It  came;  but  before  it 
arrived  they  were  already  busy  talking.  John  had 
begun  by  commenting  on  his  experiences  as  a  season- 
ticket  holder,  and  how  tiresome  at  first  he  had  found 
the  gatemen;  not  because  he  was  English,  but  because 


ioo  THE  VENEERINGS 

he  spoke  French  too  well,  in  their  opinion,  "pour  un 
Anglais." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sophie,  "  the  admission  at  the  gates  and 
the  money-taking  are  not  bright  specimens  of  French 
management.  At  first — in  April — they  put  at  each 
'  tourniquet '  two  cash-takers  and  season-ticket  inspec- 
tors. As  regards  the  cash-crowds,  one  man  took  your 
frank,  the  other  raked  it  towards  him  and  let  it  fall  into 
the  slit  of  a  box  whilst  he  released  the  catch  of  the 
turnstile.  Then  there  seemed  to  grow  up  a — a — sort  of 
collusion  between  the  two  gaterhen,  and  they  contrived 
to  pocket  and  divide  a  considerable  proportion  of  the 
admission  money.  Do  you  like  your  tea  poured  out 
straight  away?  " 

"  Straight  away,  please,  if  it  has  been  made  by  Eng- 
lish hands,  as  I  take  it  this  has,  since  there  is  no  mad- 
dening silver  net  hung  to  the  spout  to  catch  tea  leaves. 
.  .  .  And  so  I  suppose  they  stuck  on  gendarmes  or 
soldiers  with  bayonets  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Something  like  it.  When  I  heard,  I  said, 
'  Why  don't  you  advertise  for  twin-brother  couples, 
and  stick  one  couple  at  each  gate?  Brothers  seldom 
agree.  However,  they  first  put  a  sergent  de  ville  to 
watch  each  wwbrotherly  couple  of  gatemen.  Then  these 
couples  squared  the  sergent  de  ville.  .  .  .  This  lettuce 
is  delicious!  Won't  you  have  some?  " 

"  Thanks,  I  will.  What  an  odd,  delightful,  and  un- 
timely meal.  I  have  always  craved  for  tea  in  the  after- 
noon. I've  eaten  three  of  these  sugar  cakes  already. 
Well,  what  was — what  is  the  final  result  about  the 
money-taking,  and  why  are  season-ticket  holders  like 
myself  so  scrutinisingly  watched?  I  feel  like  a  criminal 
each  time." 

"  Well,  the  final  result  is  what  you  see;  a  small  army 
of  officials — sergents  de  ville  and  gendarmes  at  each 
entrance,  except,  of  course,  those  reserved  for  the  per- 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867      101 

sonnel,  which  is  where  /  generally  come  in.  Have  you 
finished  your  tea?  " 

"  All  except  the  last  cup.  I  shall  drink  this  slowly. 
And  let's  talk  about  drugs.  They  are  my  main  subject 
of  interest  nowadays,  since  I  bought  up  Veneering's 
business." 

"  You  married  Bella  Wilfer,  of  course?  " 

"  I  married  Bella — of  course — and  love  her  as  I 
thought  I  could  never  love  any  one " 

"  There  is  rather  an  odd  person  just  now  in  Paris, 
who  calls  herself  '  Susie  Wilbraham.'  ...  Is  she  your 
wife's  sister?  The  police  are  inquiring  about  her.  .  .  . 
She's  come  here  from  Baden-Baden,  where  she  won 
quite  a  lot  of  money — in  company — aren't  things  amaz- 
ingly mixed? — in  company  with  Veneering,  a  man  we 
have  both  of  us  known  in  London — a  former  M.P." 

"  Yes.  I  know  much  about  Susie,  and  as  I  hate 
telling  a  lie,  I  admit  she  is  my  wife's  sister.  I  also 
know  nearly  as  much  about  Veneering;  in  fact,  as  you 
know,  I  have  bought  up  his  business  in  London.  His 
name  is  still  kept  in  the  firm,  partly  because  I  have  a 
regard  for  his  wife — her  father  was  the  senior  partner. 
.  .  .  But  don't  let  us  talk  about  these  horrid  people. 
I'm  sorry  you — or  the  Paris  police — got  to  know  about 
Susie.  I  wish  to  God  she'd  gone  out  to  the  colonies. 
.  .  .  The  Wilfers  had  more  children  than  could  be 
properly  placed " 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Harmon !  Don't  distress  yourself 
about  my  knowing !  I  know  a  great  deal.  Whatever  I 
know  or  can  do,  I  have  no  malice  against  you.  You 
have  asked  me  one  or  two  leading  questions,  I  am  sure 
with  no  desire  to  injure  me,  nor  even  out  of  idle  curi- 
osity. I  did  not  answer  them,  but_I  have  them  at  the 
back  of  my  mind.  I  am  managing  the  stall,  this  '  lodge  ' 
as  they  call  it,  exhibiting  Bearnais  products,  industries, 
and  so  on,  but — you  need  not  look  surprised! — I  was 


102  THE  VENEERINGS 

never  in  Beam  in  my  life.  Yet  I  have  really  become  so 
interested  in  the  Pyrenees  I  think  I  shall  go  there  when 
the  Exhibition  is  finished  and  shut  up." 

Harmon:  "  I  don't  know  that  I  am  greatly  surprised 
at  anything.  At  any  rate,  I  take  things  calmly.  I  am 
making  a  number  of  inquiries  about  vegetables  pro- 
ducing valuable  drugs.  Some  of  them  grow  naturally 
in  France,  and  are  far  more  used  than  most  doctors 
have  any  idea  of.  A  region  of  particular  importance  in 
this  respect  lies  on  the  slopes  of  the  Pyrenees,  between 
one  thousand  and  five  thousand  feet.  That  is  one  rea- 
son why  I  have  been  staring  at  your  loge  and  its  coun- 
ters and  shelves  for  weeks  past.  I  think  I've  already 
told  you  I  have  bought  up  Veneering's  business  in 
Mincing  Lane.  I  have  studied  drugs  to  some  extent  in 
South  Africa;  and  Veneering  himself — though,  some- 
how, in  the  idiotic  West  End  and  in  Parliament  he  got 
the  reputation  of  a  fool — was  really,  at  one  time,  quite 
a  smart  person  about  drugs.  He  helped  to  found  the 
cultivation  of  the  cinchona  tree  in  India;  and,  although 
he  failed,  it  was  more  through  the  dunder-headed  stu- 
pidity and  lofty — what  shall  I  say? — lack  of  interest  in 
botany? — of  the  Anglo-Indian  officials,  than  through 
climate,  soil,  or  natives  being  unsuitable.  But  there  it 
is.  He  himself  seems  either  to  have  gone  to  pieces  or 
to  have  taken  up  a  side  of  affairs  which  does  not  at  all 
agree  with  me.  .  .  .  Now,  you  positively  MUST  let  me 
pay  for  what  we've  had,  or  I'll  never  come  out  with  you 
again." 

Sophie  was  quite  placid  about  his  paying,  and  prom- 
ised to  make  all  the  inquiries  she  could  as  to  the  list  of 
Pyrenean  medicine  plants  he  left  with  her ;  where  they 
might  be  found,  and  how  their  seed  could  be  obtained. 
She  was  further  to  find  out  and  transmit  a  list  of  names 
of  resident  scientific  men — doctors  chiefly — who  were 
interested  in  Pyrenean  botany,  and  with  whom  John 
Harmon  could  correspond. 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867     103 

The  afternoon  of  August  20  was  the  time  fixed  for 
her  last  meeting  with  the  Podsnaps,  an  engagement 
yielded  rather  reluctantly  by  Sophie;  but  Georgy  was 
so  insistent  and  her  lower  lip  so  trembling  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  refusal,  that  she  consented.  Mr.  Podsnap  had 
hired  a  carriage  from  his  hotel  because  he  confessed 
himself  to  be  feeling  very  tired.  Yet,  out  of  character- 
istic obstinacy,  he  would  not  allow  Georgy  to  go  off 
with  her  Sophronia,  nor  would  Mrs.  Podsnap  leave 
him.  So  they  drove  pompously  round  a  small  circle  of 
celebrated  buildings,  at  no  great  distance  from  the  heart 
of  Paris.  Then,  in  a  change  of  mood,  Mr.  Podsnap 
dismissed  the  carriage  at  the  Place  Vendome,  and  said, 
after  taking  ices  or  a  cup  of  coffee  at  a  restaurant,  they 
would  walk  back  to  the  hotel.  They  were  to  have  some 
vague  sort  of  tea- supper  afterwards,  not  a  regular 
dinner,  as  they  had  packed  up  most  of  their  clothes,  and 
would  be  leaving  the  next  morning  early.  He  seemed, 
for  him,  unusually  flushed — overtired,  had  occasional 
lapses  of  memory. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  oack  now?  "  said  Sophie.  "  I'm 
sure  you  have  done  quite  sufficient  sight-seeing." 

"  Not  at  all!  This — ah — this — er — Column — inter- 
ests me  greatly  .  .  .  and — ah !  .  .  .  I  think  an  oration 
of  some  kind  is — er — being  delivered  from  the  summit. 
No.  I  shall  enjoy  the  quiet  walk  back.  It  will  do  me 
good  in  the  dusk." 

They  sat  at  the  cafe  and  ate  ices  and  drank  coffee  at 
rather  an  odd  hour — about  seven,  sunset-time.  It  was 
a  glorious  evening,  after  a  very  hot  day.  Even  Sophie 
de  Lamelle — and  she  had  enough  Puckishness  in  her  to 
impose  this  absurd  name  on  the  stolid  Podsnaps — even 
Sophie  felt  a  little  sentimental  over  the  sunset  and  the 
splendour  of  Paris.  And  the  Podsnaps  were  going 
away  (thank  goodness!)  to-morrow  morning,  and  it 
was  rather  nice  to  be  once  more  regarded  by  them  with 
favour  and  even  a  certain  respect.  .  .  .  But  her  mus- 


104  THE  VENEERINGS 

ings  were  broken  into  by  this  elderly  man.  We  must 
now,  it  seemed,  all  look  at  the  remarkable  column.  It 
dated  from  the  beginning  of  that  century,  at  the  very 
height  of  Napoleon's  glory,  and  at  the  summit  was  a 
statue  of  the  great  Emperor  recently  re-erected  (after 
many  intervening  vicissitudes)  by  his  nephew,  the  Em- 
peror Napoleon  III.  Mr.  Podsnap,  after  reading  rather 
disjointedly  several  sentences  from  the  guide-book,  rose 
and  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Podsnap — a  little  sleepy 
and  very  tired — and  insisted  on  leading  her  up  to  the 
vicinity  of  this  column  to  examine  it  in  detail.  Sophie 
and  Georgy  followed  them,  exchanging  smiles.  Sophie, 
indeed,  very  nearly  seized  this  moment  to  make  her  ex- 
cuses and  leave  them  to  walk  or  drive  back  to  their 
hotel.  She  was  thoroughly  tired  of  their  company — 
but  the  look  on  Georgy's  face  of  intense  happiness  some- 
how touched  her,  and  with  a  little  sigh  she  decided  just 
to  wait  the  actual  setting-in  of  darkness  and  then  either 
escort  them  to  the  Meurice  Hotel,  at  no  great  distance, 
or  say  good-night  and  good-bye,  and  leave  them  to 
their  fate ;  they  could  surely  not  make  any  great  mistake 
in  finding  their  way  to  the  Meurice,  supposing  they 
were  too  tiresomely  economical  not  to  drive  thither  in 
another  fiacre"?  .  .  .  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Podsnap,  after 
walking  arm-in-arm,  were  now  standing  a  little  apart, 
staring  up  at — not  the  statue ;  it  was  not  the  statue  that 
was  attracting  so  much  attention  from  a  growing 
crowd,  but  a  gesticulating  young  man,  wearing  a  very 
tall  chimney-pot  hat,  standing  by  the  side  of  the  stone 
Napoleon.  Faint,  shrill  fragments  of  his  utterance 
reached  their  ears.  To  Mrs.  Podsnap,  who  gazed  up  as 
if  hypnotised,  his  words  meant  nothing;  to  Sophie  they 
did  not  mean  much — apparently  an  address  to  Nago- 
leon.  Georgy  was  much  amused.  "  He's  making  a 
speech  to  the  Emperor's  statue !  Oh,  what  delightfully 
unreasonable  people  they  are." 

"  I  wonder  how  Mr.  Podsnap  takes  this?  "  said,  half 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867      105 

to  herself,  their  somewhat  impatient  guide.  But  Mr. 
Podsnap  was  no  longer  easily  to  be  seen.  Perhaps  he 
had  walked  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  column. 

Mr.  Podsnap  had,  in  fact,  found  himself  before  this 
point  alongside  a  very  smartly-dressed  young  woman  of 
decided  good  looks.  He  did  not  notice  the  clever  make- 
up, being  too  dazed,  and  the  sunset  light  being  too  em- 
bellishing. He  looked  at  her  several  times  .  .  .  surely 
such  a  face  was  English,  not  French?  She  returned 
his  glances  boldly,  but  not  impudently;  and  presently 
said  in  the  most  English  English :  "  Eccentric  beings, 
aren't  they?" 

Mr.  Podsnap,  if  this  had  happened  in  England,  would 
have  answered  by  a  slight,  very  haughty  bow,  and  have 
walked  away,  unless  satisfied  that  the  unintroduced  lady 
was  a  peeress.  But  being  abroad,  and  unconsciously 
very  home-sick,  he  replied  with  gallantry :  "  Most 
eccentric — I — ah — cannot  distinguish  what  he  is  say- 
ing. Is  it  a  public  address?  Surely  a  little  dangerous 
from  such  a  height,  for  I  observe  there — ah — is  no 
paling " 

"  I  think  he's  a  loony,"  said  the  lady.  "  Don't  like 
to  look  any  longer.  .  .  .  Makes  me  sick.  My  Victoria 
is  waiting  over  there.  .  .  .  Can  I  take  you  back  to  your 
hotel?" 

Mr.  Podsnap — he  really  did  not  know  why,  he  was 
so  very  tired,  and  Eunice  and  Georgy  would  ha^ve 
Madame  de  Lamelle  as  guide — but  he  really  didn't 
know  why — followed  the  lady  to  her  Victoria  and  got 
in — and  almost  seemed  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  short  drive. 

"  Wake  up !  "  she  was  saying  presently,  and  rather 
crossly.  He  pulled  himself  together  with  a  start.  Per- 
haps he  had  had  a  touch  of  the  sun.  .  .  .  This  wasn't 
the  Hotel  Meurice,  but  for  the  moment  he  had  forgot- 
ten all  about  the  Hotel  Meurice.  .  .  .  Perhaps?  .  .  . 
Perhaps  they  were  back  in  England  ? 


106  THE  VENEERINGS 

The  tension  of  this  waiting  acted  exceptionally  on 
Mme.  de  Lamelle's  nerves.  It  must — from  the  sky  and 
the  lit  lamps — be  half -past  seven.  She  had  no  dinner 
engagement,  but  she  wanted  a  quiet  evening  to  compose 
some  notes  for  Mons.  Charlevoix's  reading.  She  had 
better  say  a  short  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Podsnap  and  to 
Georgy  and  leave  them  to  find  their  way  back  to  their 
hotel ;  or  if  they  were  such  idiots  that  they  could  neither 
walk  there  alone  nor  get  into  a  fiacre  and  drive  there, 
well,  she  could  rapidly  escort  them  to  the  door  and  then 
take  a  fiacre  herself  to  Passage  Bosquet.  Probably  not 
five  minutes  covered  this  lapse  of  time  since  they  had 
left  the  pavement  table  of  the  cafe,  their  ices,  and  coffee. 
Very  likely  Mr.  P.,  being  tired,  had  walked  back  to  the 
hotel.  She  advanced  with  the  clinging  Georgiana  and 
touched  Mrs.  Podsnap  on  the  arm.  Really  she  had  been 
nearly  lost  to  them  in  the  increasing  crowd  of  heat- 
weary,  sensation-hungry  people,  all  staring  upward  at 
the  gesticulating  figure  talking  to  Napoleon.  Three 
sergents  de  ville  and  an  official  or  two  had  been  for 
some  time  trying  to  force  open  the  door  leading  up  the 
inside  stairs.  .  .  .  Evidently  the  mad  orator  had  locked 
this  against  them  before  he  climbed  up.  ...  There 
was  an  ominous  silence  as  they  desisted — heated,  angry, 
puzzled.  They  had  sent  for  stronger  implements  amid 
a  silence  only  broken  by  the  faint  "  yap !  yap !  "  of  the 
madman. 

Suddenly,  while  Sophie  was  remonstrating  with  Mrs. 
Podsnap,  there  arose  shriek  upon  shriek.  The  spokes- 
man on  the  monument  summit  had  raised  his  tall  hat  to 
the  Emperor's  statue  by  which  he  had  been  standing 
and  had  then  (for  there  was  no  railing)  leapt  into  the 
air,  to  fall  with  a  sickening  thud  on  the  stones,  a  hun- 
dred and  forty  feet  below.  His  head,  as  the  body 
crashed  down,  parted  with  the  encircling  hat  and  was 
smashed  to  fragments. 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867     107 

Sophie's  first  thought  was  for  Georgiana,  the  grown- 
up child  who  had  never  before  seen  any  episode  of  hor- 
ror; but  Georgiana  took  things  much  more  sensibly 
than  any  one  might  have  foreseen.  Merely  saying, 
"How  horrible!  How  horrible,"  she  rushed  to  her 
prone  mother  who,  of  course,  had  swooned  heavily  jmd 
was  all  aflop  on  the  paving.  The  crowd  about  them 
gesticulated,  shrieked,  yowled,  howled,  and  swayed  to 
and  fro,  evading  the  rushing  figures  of  the  police. 
Sophie  and  Georgy  lifted  Mrs.  Podsnap  to  her  feet,  and 
Sophie  hissed  into  her  ears :  "You  must  command 
yourself ;  otherwise  they  may  claim  you  as  a  witness  in 
the  courts.  You  must  return  now  with  your  daughter 
to  the  hotel  where,  no  doubt,  your  husband  is  waiting 
for  you,  and  then  go  to  bed."  Between  the  two  of  them 
they  directed  her  faltering  steps  out  of  the  crowd  into 
quieter  streets,  and  so  to  the  hotel  entrance.  "  II  y  a  eu 
un  suicide  du  sommet  de  la  Colonne  Vendome,"  said 
Sophie,  in  a  quiet  voice  which  still  shook,  to  the  deco- 
rous hotel  staff.  Otherwise  they  might  have  thought 
that  Mrs.  Podsnap  was  inebriated. 

"  Madame  et  Mademoiselle  1'ont  vu,  et  Madame  en 
est  toute  bouleversee  comme  vous  la  voyez.  Elle  est 
tres  malade.  Conduisez-la  a  son  appartement  pendant 
que  je  retrouve  son  mari." 

Then  she  went  to  the  concierge  at  the  entrance.  But 
he  had  seen  no  entrance  of  Monsieur  Podsnap,  who  had 
departed  early  in  the  afternoon  in  one  of  the  hotel  car- 
riages. Mme.  de  Lamelle  stamped  her  foot  with  vexa- 
tion. What  could  have  become  of  him  ?  And  why,  oh, 
why,  had  she  been  fool  enough  to  get  mixed  up  with  the 
Podsnaps  once  more!  They  were  to  have  returned  to 
England  the  next  day ! 

In  her  distraction  she  thought  of  John  Harmon.  .  .  . 
Where  was  he  staying?  She  took  out  her  little  note- 
book from  a  hidden  pocket.  Yes!  How  fortunate! 


io8  THE  VENEERINGS 

Here  was  his  address.  What  luck!  Hotel  Meurice! 
Actually  here. 

"  Vous  connaissez  M'sieur  Jean  Harmon?"  she 
asked  the  imperturbable  hall  porter. 

He  replied  with  an  added  shade  of  consideration : 
"  Si  je  le  connais?  J'crois  bien — un  monsieur  tres  dis- 
tingue." 

"  Alors  tout  va  mieux,  car  M'sieur  Harmon  a  une 
certaine  connaissance  avec  ces  gens  in  fortunes,  ces  Pod- 
snap.  Faites  demander  s'il  est  chez  lui,  car  alors " 

But  Mr.  Harmon  had  gone  out  half  an  hour  or  an 
hour  ago,  to  dine — the  valet  of  his  rooms  thought — 
with  a  French  minister  "  detenu  a  Paris  par  les 
affaires."  That  meant  that  his  return  might  not  take 
place  till — eleven,  twelve  o'clock.  Still,  to  know  he  was 
staying  here  lifted  a  huge  weight  off  Sophie's  mind. 

She  told  the  hall  porter  the  bare  circumstances  of  the 
case — their  assembling  round  the  Colonne  Vendome, 
the  suicide  of  the  mad  orator — Mr.  Podsnap's  disap- 
pearance. 

He  was,  of  course,  shocked  to  learn  of  the  suicide, 
and  fully  realised  the  upset  of  the  elder  lady.  As  to  the 
gentleman,  he  was  calm.  M'sieur  Podsnap  would  turn 
up  in  good  time.  (He  had  known  of  so  many  similar 
disappearances  and  returns  and  had  learnt  "  qu'avec  les 
Anglais  il  ne  fallait  pas  les  prendre  au  tragique.") 

"  Du  reste,  il  y  a  encore  le  temps.  Cette  famille  tres- 
respectable  ne  quitterait  1'hotel  avant  huit  heures  du 
matin.  .  .  .  Madame  devait  s'accalmer.  .  .  .  Le  sui- 
cide. .  .  .  Ca,  c'etait  horrible.  .  .  .  Pas  a  douter.  .  .  . 
Et  Madame.  .  .  .  Madame  etait  Anglaise?  Madame 
avait  agi  avec  enormement  de  savoir  faire  en  rempor- 
tant  tout-de-suite  Mme.  Podsnap  et  Mademoiselle.  .  .  . 
Autrement,  avec  la  police,  Ton  ne  savait  jamais  .  .  . 
quels  embarras,"  etc. 

Sophie  went  up  to  the  Podsnap  suite  and  asked  to  see 
Mademoiselle.  Georgy  came  out  on  tiptoe  into  their 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867      109 

sitting-room.  "  Ma's  gone  to  sleep.  I  only  hope  I 
didn't  give  her  too  much  laudanum;  but  she  seems 
sleeping  naturally.  .  .  .  But  what  are  we  to  do?  Do 
you  think  poor  Pa's  been  murdered?  And  he's  got  the 
tickets,  and  most  of  the  money !  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Sophie,  "  look  here.  You're  far 
more  of  a  sensible  little  thing  than  I  ever  thought  you. 
You  behaved  splendidly  when  that  poor  creature  threw 
himself  off  the  tower  on  to  the  ground.  With  your 
careful,  cotton-wool  bringing-up,  I  didn't  know  for  one 
second  what  you  mightn't  do.  All  else  will  come  right, 
believe  me.  It  is  everything  you  and  your  poor  mother 
are  safe  back  here,  in  this  comfortable  hotel.  What 
does  it  matter  if  you  don't  go  home  to-morrow?  You 
can  always  telegraph  to  Portman  Square.  Now,  listen 
carefully  to  what  I  am  saying.  I  shall  send  word  to  an 
acquaintance — I  might  almost  say  friend — of  mine  who 
is  living  in  this  hotel,  Mr.  John  Harmon.  Your  mother 
— perhaps  even  you — have  heard  of  him  at  home.  He 
was  once  Mr.  Boffin's  secretary,  but  came  into  heaps 
and  heaps  and  heaps  of  money.  He  is  out  dining  to- 
night, but  he  will  get  my  letter  as  soon  as  he  comes 
back.  I  must  go  now  to  my  rooms  in  Passage  Bosquet. 
But  on  the  way  there  I  shall  inform  the  police,  and  I 
expect  your  father  will  return  all  right  during  the 
night.  He  may  have  lost  his  way,  or  said  something  to 
your  mother  she  did  not  hear.  But  you  will  be  all  much 
too  tired  and  upset  to  go  to-morrow  morning.  So  we'll 
telegraph.  I'll  be  round  here  quite  early  in  the  morning 
— and  you'll  get  home  the  next  day.  .  .  .  You're  a 

dear — sensible — little  thing." 

***** 

When  Susie  Wilbraham  found  herself  saddled  with 
a  plethoric,  elderly  Englishman  who  was  not  merely 
vinous — as  she  had  at  first  supposed — but  ill,  dazed, 
cracky,  she  said :  "  Well !  I  have  been  a  blooming 
idiot."  It  would  be  ghastly  if  he  died  in  her  flat.  At 


I  io  THE  VENEERINGS 

any  cost  he  must  be  got  rid  of.  She  and  her  maid, 
under  one  pretext  and  another,  searched  gingerly  in  his 
pockets,  but  they  could  light  upon  no  evidence  of  his 
address  in  Paris.  So  the  maid — a  German  from  the 
frontier,  able  to  talk  Alsatian  French  as  well  as  some 
English — went  off  to  the  nearest  police  station  and  told 
an  elegant  version  of  Susie's  interference  with  Mr. 
Podsnap's  movements — a  poor  Englishman,  or  at  least 
one  seemingly  well-to-do — they  themselves  had  not 
liked  to  make  any  examination  of  his  pockets. 

These  statements  were  taken  at  their  approximate 
value.  Susie  was  evidently  a  lady  of  uncertain  morals, 
but  not,  so  far,  well  known  to  the  Paris  police ;  she  had 
a  discreet  maid  and  a  sufficiency  of  money.  Mr.  Pod- 
snap  was  now  quite  light-headed,  but  very  sleepy;  he 
was  borne  off  to  a  quiet  ward  at  the  police  station,  and 
by  two  in  the  morning  a  messenger  arrived  from  the 
headquarters  of  the  arrondissement  and  the  identifica- 
tion was  assured.  In  a  semi-comatose  state  he  was  dis- 
creetly returned  to  the  Hotel  Meurice  about  four  a.m. 

Poor  Georgiana,  who  had  been  sitting  up,  and  often 
crying,  was  very  much  relieved,  still  more  so  when  she 
found  she  had  not  given  her  mother  too  strong  a  dose 
of  laudanum,  but  that  she  was  easily  awakened  and 
ready  to  devote  herself  to  her  sick  husband.  At  about 
half -past  four  a.m.  an  extremely  agreeable  and  very 
nice-looking  gentleman,  Mr.  John  Harmon,  had  sent  in 
his  card,  and  in  a  whispered  conversation  had  assured 
Miss  Podsnap  of  his  sympathy  and  readiness  to  help. 
The  Podsnaps'  stay  in  Paris  might  have  to  be  prolonged 
till  her  father  was  quite  himself  again ;  but  nothing  else 
need  disturb  her — it  was  a  mixture  of  sunstroke,  over- 
sight-seeing, a  foreign  diet.  .  .  .  Her  father,  if  left  in 
perfect  quiet,  would  soon  be  himself  again,  and  her 
mother  also.  A  clever  English  doctor  should  see  to 
them  both,  and  with  him  present  Miss  Podsnap  need 
not  take  on  herself  the  responsibility  of  administering 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867     in 

any  further  doses  of  laudanum  to  her  mother,  though 
on  this  occasion  she  had  acted  with  remarkable  wisdom 
and  judgment.  Mrs.  Harmon,  his  wife  (he  reminded 
her),  had  dined  with  Miss  Podsnap's  parents  prior  to 
her  marriage — several  years  ago.  .  .  .  Altogether  the 
little  event  was  turning  out  most  happily,  and  now  the 
plucky,  but  greatly  tried  young  lady,  must  go  to  bed 
and  sleep  well,  and  no  doubt  her  friend,  Mme.  de 
Lamelle,  would  look  in  on  her  during  the  morning.  So 
a  sobbing,  but  greatly  relieved  and  fortified  Georgy  did, 
indeed,  retire  to  bed  with  a  thankful  heart,  and  slept 
steadily  till  ten  a.m.  the  next  morning,  when  her  much-- 
loved Sophie  appeared  just  as  a  breakfast  tray  came  in. 

The  ten  days  which  followed  were  quite  the  happiest 
Georgy  had  so  far  passed  in  her  life.  Her  father  was 
mildly  ill  and  unable  to  order  her  about;  the  interven- 
tion of  one  so  rich  and  vouched  for  as  "  M'sieur 
'Armon,"  said  to  have  a  fortune  in  London — property 
vouched  for  at  three  hundred  thousand  pounds — defi- 
nitely established  the  respect  felt  at  the  hotel  for  the 
Podsnaps ;  and  John  Harmon's  acquaintance  with  Mme. 
de  Lamelle  accounted  and  vouched  for  her.  Georgiana 
was  therefore  able  to  find  her  way,  every  day,  to  the 
Great  Exhibition,  and  to  sit  and  work  with  Sophie  in 
her  Loge  de  Beam.  She  was  even  able  to  pretend 
afterwards,  in  their  section  of  London  Society,  that  she 
had  been  an  employee  of  the  French  Exhibition;  and 
certainly,  in  this  month  of  France,  she  had  learnt — and 
retained — more  French  than  had  ever  come  to  her  be- 
fore. She  seemed  even  to  grow  in  actual  size — perhaps 
truly  became  stouter,  stronger,  less  insignificant.  In 
her  enthusiasm  she,  with  pantings,  proposed  to  Sophie 
that  she  should  link  her  lot  with  that  of  the  Lamelles 
i  she  revelled  in  the  French  version  of  the  name,  and 
v  7ould  swallow  any  legend  to  account  for  it) . 

But  this  Sophie  would  not  agree  to.  "I  have  a  lot  to 
do  yet,  my  child,  before  I  am  free.  It  is  all  like  one  of 


ii2  THE  VENEERINGS 

those  rather  foolish  fairy  stories  you  are  beginning  to 
read.  But  I  see — I  do  see  a  light  at  the  end  of  the  over- 
grown avenue,  a  day  coming — possibly — when  I  shall 
have  saved  enough  money  to  live  on — to  live  a  nice  life 
on — and  then  if  your  parents  don't  want  you  and  you 
don't  marry — but  I  dare  say  you'll  be  married  long 
before  then — you  shall  come  and  live  with  me — if  you 
care  to  live  abroad " 

"  //  I  care !  "  Georgy  would  reply.  "  I  hate  Eng- 
land. I  always  want  to  live  abroad " 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know !  England  is  a  lovely  country 
for  rich  people,  and  well-born  people,  people  in  your 
station  of  life;  it  is  only  cruel  to  people  like  me " 

"  And  Alfred — if  I  may  call  him  so — and  Mr. 
Lammle — I — I — mean  Monsieur  de  Lamelle." 

"  No,  dear.  I  won't  encourage  you  to  be  silly.  My 
name  is  really  Lammle,  though  over  here  the  spelling 
seems  so  to  confuse  them  that  I  have  gradually  slid  into 
'  Lamelle ' 

"  Well,  why  not  stick  to  it?  Especially  if  you  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  horrid  old  England." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall.  However,  we  need  not  bother 
about  that  now.  You  go  back  with  your  parents  to 
London  and  try  to  meet  there  with  some  thoroughly 
good  and  sufficiently  well-off  young  man  you  really 
could  like,  and  who  would  appreciate  and  like  you. 
Marry  him  and  have  children.  Then  some  day  we 
shall  meet  again.  But  don't  throw  yourself  away. 
I  dare  say,  in  a  year  or  two,  business  of  mine  or  of 
Alfred's  will  call  me  to  England,  and  I  will  call  and 
see  you.  Later  on,  if  you  don't  marry,  or  don't  feel 
happy  at  home — well — perhaps  we  might  live  together 
for  a  while — travel  together " 

Through  the  police,  through  the  recovered  Podsnap, 
through  other  feelers,  John  Harmon  realised  that  his 
sister-in-law  was  living  in  Paris — with  some  discre- 


L'EXPOSITION  UNIVERSELLE:  1867     113 

tion ;  that  it  was  she  who  had  picked  up  the  "lost"  Mr. 
Podsnap  and  given  him  refuge,  when  he  was  very  un- 
well, and  handed  him  over  to  a  discreet  Chef  de  Police. 
Indeed,  before  they  departed  from  Paris,  Mrs.  Podsnap 
and  Georgiana  had  made  their  way  in  a  carriage  to 
Susie's  address  and  left  cards  of  thanks  and  an  assur- 
ance that  Mr.  P.  was  now  sufficiently  recovered  to  be 
returning  home.  But  John  also  found  his  way  to  the 
rooms  of  an  at  first  defiant,  and  later  a  cowed  sister-in- 
law,  and  had  intimated  that  if  she  definitely  joined  the 
Legion  of  the  Lost  in  Paris  life,  did  not,  in  fact,  clear 
out  of  France  at  once,  he  could  make  her  position  there 
very  unpleasant.  He  was  determined  to  save  her  from 
the  life  she  had  marked  out  for  herself,  partly  in  igno- 
rance of  what  the  life  of  a  woman  of  pleasure,  espe- 
cially a  foreign  woman  of  pleasure,  was  in  Paris,  in 
those  days.  He  acted  so  powerfully  on  her  feelings 
that  before  he  returned  to  England,  to  his  now  anxious 
and  entreating  Bella,  he  had  secured  her  starting  with 
nearly  all  her  three  thousand  pounds  for  New  Zealand, 
to  join  (whether  or  not  they  liked  it)  the  household 
of  her  brother  John.  John  Wilfer,  by  now,  had  mar- 
ried his  Crete  and  was  "  getting  on  fine."  Harmon  had 
helped  him,  so  the  news  of  his  sister  Susie  coming  out 
at  Harmon's  advice  was  at  first  hardly  a  blow.  In 
all  probability,  with  her  modest  dowry,  she  would  soon 
be  snapped  up  by  a  spouse.  No  doubt  she  was.  So 
John  Harmon,  having  seen  Susie  off  at  Marseilles  in 
torrid  heat  on  a  steamer  which,  through  its  Red  Sea 
connections,  would  transfer  her  to  New  Zealand,  at 
length  and  very  thankfully  and  relievedly  joined  his 
Bella  at  their  house  on  the  verge  of  Cavendish  Square; 
and  Bella  showed  much  kindness  to  Georgy  Podsnap. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTER   THIRTEEN   YEARS 

IN  June,  1880,  Mervyn  Veneering  came  over  from 
Calais  to  London  to  commence  work  at  the  great 
drug  house  of  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.  This  was 
in  accord  with  John  Harmon's  plans  and  his  promises 
to  Mervyn's  mother.  She — Annie  Veneering — still 
lived  at  Villa  les  Acacias  on  the  outskirts — the  phrase 
was  now  more  than  ever  true — of  Calais.  Only  the 
canal  now  separated  this  pleasant  spot  with  fields, 
orchards,  and  garden  from  inclusion  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  modern  town. 

But  the  garden  was  luxuriant  and  well  ordered.  Mrs. 
Veneering  had,  during  the  last  fourteen  years,  grad- 
ually improved  her  financial  position,  with  John  Har- 
mon to  help  her.  She  had  saved  enough  money  to  buy 
from  the  long  absent  proprietaire  the  freehold  of  the 
villa  and  its  garden  and  field,  and  had  a  little  increased 
the  enclosed  land  round  it  till  it  amounted,  in  all,  to  a 
superficies  of  three  hectares — which,  in  her  letters 
home,  she  proudly  translated  into  six  acres.  The  sale 
of  the  produce  of  the  land  added  to  her  four  hundred 
a  year,  raised  her  annual  income  by  degrees  to  six  hun- 
dred— seven  hundred  pounds.  Her  husband,  when  he 
stayed  at  the  villa,  contributed  to  its  expenses.  They 
now  took  in  no  more  lodgers  or  paying  guests,  and 
Mrs.  Veneering  gave  more  and  more  attention  to  her 
poultry  farm,  vegetables,  and  fruit  trees.  She  sold  all 
the  produce  not  needed  for  their  own  sustenance,  and 
even,  in  the  late  'seventies,  had  a  subsidiary  farmlet 
near  Marquise,  which  sent  its  ducks  and  chickens  across 

114 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  115 

the  Channel  to  be  sold  in  London.  Her  daughter, 
Jeanne,  helped  her  vigorously  in  all  this  and  spoke 
French  like  an  educated  Frenchwoman. 

Annie  Veneering  must  have  been  about  forty-seven 
in  1880.  An  open-air  life  in  northern  France,  since 
1865,  had  greatly  improved  her  health  and  stamina.  In 
1869,  she  had  become  a  Roman  Catholic,  after  a  spell 
of  unusual  "  tryingness  "  on  the  part  of  her  husband. 
But  she  had,  of  course,  no  intellectual  guard  against 
the  more  diffuse  forms  of  religion,  and  Catholicism 
seemed  to  her  an  increasing  satisfaction  in  her  life  of 
hard  work,  unwonted  self-reliance,  utter  disappoint- 
ment, and  exile :  an  exile  to  which  she  was  growing 
more  and  more  reconciled.  Indeed,  it  pleased  her,  in 
her  middle-age,  to  trace  her  husband  back  to  a  Flemish 
origin.  It  seemed  to  make  them  completely  respectable. 
There  were  actually  Calais  people  of  the  name  of 
Van  Eering,  only  they  were  keepers  of  cabarets  or 
fishermen. 

Pere  Duparquet  had  been  her  good  friend  and  trust- 
worthy adviser.  He  had  secured  her  conversion  to 
Catholicism,  and  the  baptism  into  the  Roman  Church 
of  her  youngest  son,  the  frequently  peevish  Lancelot. 
Jeanne — as  she  was  called  on  the  French  side — and 
Mervyn  were  stiffer  propositions.  They  sometimes 
went  to  church  with  their  mother;  sometimes  stayed 
away  .  .  .  committed  themselves  to  no  decided  step, 
save  that  of  heartily  disliking  the  representatives  of  the 
Church  of  England  abroad,  a  feeling  only  based  on  the 
remembrance  of  a  once  unsympathetic,  hard- judging 
Anglican  chaplain  at  Calais.  Their  very  Bohemian 
father  had  been  an  unexpressed  agnostic  all  his  working 
life,  except  when  an  ambition  to  get  into  "  Societx  " 
had  sent  him  to  church.  Across  the  Channel  he  had 
disdained  such  aids  to  the  building  up  of  character. 

In  1880,  he  was  sixty  years  old,  and  feeling  the 
effects  of  an  after-life  of  prolonged  dissipation,  of 


u6  THE  VENEERINGS 

bounteous  breakfasts,  four-course  luncheons,  nips  of 
brandy,  cups  of  black  coffee,  French  wines,  Rhine 
wines,  Italian  wines,  liqueurs,  six-course  dinners,  and 
occasional  petits  soupers — and  what  not  else? 

"  But  surely,  a  chemist,  a  drug  merchant,  such  as 
you  make  him  out  to  have  been ?  " 

He  was  less  a  chemist  than  a  salesman,  a  commer- 
cial traveller,  a  promoter  of  'cute  ideas.  He  still  be- 
longed to  the  school  that  saw  no  serious  harm  in  over- 
eating or  in  >he  drinking  of  wines  and  sipping  of 
liqueurs  to  any  extent  your  purse  permitted,  so  long 
as  you  did  not  get  drunk. 

At  sixty  he  began  to  have  gout  in  various  disguised 
forms,  scarcely  then  recognised  as  gout.  He  had  lost 
his  sly  love  of  women;  but  even  had  this  appetency 
remained,  he  himself  no  longer  possessed  any  sexual 
attractiveness.  No  decent-looking  or  decent-living 
woman  would  now  surrender  to  his  invitation  without 
a  financial  inducement  beyond  his  means.  He  still  had 
a  fine  head  of  hair,  oily  with  scented  dressings ;  but  its 
colour,  in  ten  years,  had  passed  from  a  rich  black  brown 
to  a  decided,  though  not  uncomely,  grey. 

Mervyn  being  three  months  under  eighteen  when 
John  Harmon's  invitation  to  enter  the  service  of  the 
firm  had  reached  and  been  accepted  by  his  mother, 
and  having  hitherto  never  travelled  across  the  Channel 
to  his  native  land,  it  had  been  decided  that  he  should 
be  accompanied  and  seen  to  by  his  capable  sister  Jeanne. 
It  seemed  a  little  strange  to  Mrs.  Veneering  that  Mr. 
Harmon,  having  interested  himself  in  Mervyn  from 
his  youth  up,  should  have  sent  him  no  invitation  to 
stay  either  in  Wigmore  Street  or  in  Gloucestershire 
at  the  start  of  his  career;  but  there  it  was.  Mervyn 
had  got  to  reach  London  to  present  himself  at  the  Minc- 
ing Lane  office,  and  he  could  have  few  shrewder 
travelling  companions  than  his  elder  sister  who,  at 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  117 

twenty,  had  the  wits  and  sobriety  of  a  man  of  thirty. 
Jeanne  had  been  twice  to  England  with  her  mother, 
and  understood  all  the  intricacies  of  the  Channel 
service. 

The  brother  and  sister  directed  their  course  to  Char- 
ing Cross  station.  After  much  home  discussion  and 
consideration  of  Harmon's  suggestions,  it  had  been 
decided  that  Mervyn  should  continue  his  studies  at 
King's  College,  Strand,  to  prepare  for  eventual  entry 
into  Cambridge.  During  the  years  of  preparation,  he 
would  be  working  daily  at  the  Mincing  Lane  house — 
his  complete  knowledge  of  French  and  his  shorthand 
would  be  of  great  service  to  old  Mr.  Wilfer — and  he 
could  attend  the  College  evening  classes 

Jeanne  and  Mervyn,  therefore,  arrived  one  lovely 
morning  in  June.  Even  the  surroundings  of  Charing 
Cross  station  looked  relatively  benign  and  innocent  in 
the  young  sunlight.  London,  of  course,  got  up  later 
than  Calais  or  any  French  town :  so  they  decided  they 
would  not  be  in  a  hurry,  but  would  breakfast  at  the 
restaurant  and  then  look  about  them  for  suitable  lodg- 
ings close  by,  somewhere  not  too  far  from  King's  Col- 
lege, or  from  the  Underground  which  would  take 
Mervyn,  most  days  of  the  week,  to  the  City. 

The  railway  restaurant,  in  those  days,  was,  of  course, 
in  very  saddening  contrast  with  things  to  eat  and  drink 
at  Calais.  Perhaps  it  was  that  which  made  the  back 
of  Jeanne's  throat  ache  so,  and  her  eyes  so  constantly 
fill  with  tears,  as  she  watched  Mervyn' s  profile,  and 
thought  how  soon  they  would  be  separated.  However, 
eight  o'clock  did  not  seem  too  early  to  look  for  lodg- 
ings. So  leaving  Mer's  luggage  in  the  cloak-room,  they 
sallied  forth  into  the  sunlit  street.  Above  an  Old 
Curiosity  Shop  at  the  end  of  the  street,  long  since 
altered  in  subsequent  "  improvements,"  was  an  invit- 
ing prescription :  "  Apartments  To  Let." 

The  proprietor  and  his  wife — the  latter  with  her  hair 


n8  THE  VENEERINGS 

still  in  an  iron-grey  tangle,  the  hour  of  social  refine- 
ment in  Villiers  Street  not  having  struck — received 
them  with  a  certain  amazement.  They  resembled  so 
little  the  usual  clientele  of  lodgers  who  succeeded  each 
other  in  the  tenancy  of  the  two  suites  of  apartments. 
Jeanne  explained  that  her  brother  might  like  to  see 
the  rooms,  as  he  was  about  to  be  enrolled  as  a  student 
at  King's  College. 

The  proprietor's  wife  led  them  to  the  first  floor, 
threw  open  doors  and  windows,  and  came  down  to 
discuss  them  intermediately  with  her  husband.  "  A 
pair  of  innocents,  if  you'll  believe  me.  Brother  an' 
sister.  'E's  goin'  to  be  a  schudent  at  King's  an'  says 
as  'e'll  give  a  reference  to  some  big  City  bloke,  some 
name  like  'Armon.  She's  a  goin'  back  to  'er  Ma  in 
France,  but  wants  to  see  'er  brother  suited  before  she 
goes.  .  .  .  'Ud  like  to  go  this  evening,"  otherwise 
must  put  up  at  an  'otel.  I  vote  we  try  'em.  It'll  be  a 
change  after  Polls  as  goes  off  with  a  quarter's  rent  due, 
or  literary  chaps  as  pleads  with  tears  in  their  eyes  they 
can't  pay  up." 

So,  when  presently  Mervyn  and  Jeanne  came  down 
and  tried  to  look  very  cold  arid  business-like  and 
thought  the  rooms  might  suit,  but  Mervyn  could  only 
afford  to  pay — a  little  less  than  Mrs.  Proprietor  had 
named  (this,  with  much  inner  trembling,  Jeanne  had 
decided  was  the  right  course),  Mervyn  was  grum- 
blingly  accepted,  told  at  any  rate  that  it  was  a  let  for 
three  months,  to  see  how  things  worked,  and  on  the 
understanding  that  much  cooking  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected from  a  very  busy  landlady.  Then  the  luggage 
was  brought  over  from  the  station  and  Jeanne  un- 
packed for  her  dear  boy.  The  furniture  enraptured 
them ;  it  was  so  old  or  so  admirably  feigned  to  be  old. 

The  two  rooms  (and  a  lavatory  outside  on  the  land- 
ing) had  served  to  house  some  of  the  best  bits  of  the 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  119 

Old  Curiosity  Shop.  The  windows  opened  westward, 
towards  the  station,  and  there  was  (if  they  had  stopped 
to  realise  it)  a  frightful  din,  night  and  day,  from 
rumbling  trains  and  whistling,  screaming  engines ;  but 
they  would  also  look  towards  the  wonderful  London 
sunset.  Turn  your  head  to  the  left  and  there  was  a 
glimpse  of  green  foliage,  and  even  a  peep,  two  inches 
long,  of  the  river. 

Mervyn  and  Jeanne  were  enchanted  with  their  luck 
— or  was  it  not  better  than  luck?  Rattling  good  man- 
agement. That's  what  Mervyn  said  Jeanne  was  to  tell 
their  tired,  anxious  mother  when  she  was  back  home 
again,  early  the  next  morning.  Then  mother  would 
let  Jeanne  come  over  other  times  to  help  Mervyn  out 
of  other  difficulties. 

"  As  pretty  a  pair  as  I've  seen  this  many  a  day,"  said 
their  landlady  behind  their  backs  as  they  walked  out 
in  the  glaring  sunshine  to  see  something  of  London 
before  the  sad,  inevitable  parting,  before  Jeanne  re- 
turned by  the  evening  train  and  night  steamer  to  Calais. 
"  Well,  it  won't  do  us  no  'arm  to  'ave  'im  for  a  bit  after 
that  'Umphreys.  I  reelly  felt  the  rooms  wanted  a  dis- 
infectant after  'e'd  gone.  Even  Miss  Clements  seemed 
proper  then.  And  with  this  lad  as  lodger  in  the  front 
suite  we  can  change  the  furniture  a  bit  easier  when 
we  want  to." 

Jeanne  and  Mervyn  had  spent  most  of  that  June 
morning  gaily,  rearranging  both  sitting-room  and  bed- 
room a  little,  just  to  establish  a  feeling  of  proprietor- 
ship. Then  about  one  o'clock  they  decided — a  little 
palpitating — to  set  out  to  lunch  and  to  see  London. 
They  dared  not  ask  the  grim  landlady  to  prepare  them 
a  meal  so  serious  as  lunch  at  short  notice  in  the  sitting- 
room;  besides  it  would  not  have  such  a  flavour  of  ad- 
venture, of  taking  up  their  citizenship.  So  they  walked 
up  Villiers  Street  to  the  Strand,  the  historic  Strand, 


120  THE  VENEERINGS 

crossed  the  Strand — quite  a  safe  and  easy  thing  to  do 
then,  with  only  horse-drawn  buses  and  cabs  to  keep  an 
eye  on — and  went  to  an  attractive-looking  restaurant 
in  a  side  street  leading  to  Trafalgar  Square  and  well 
in  view  of  the  National  Gallery.  The  lunch  seemed 
heavy  after  the  regime  of  Calais.  Still  it  was  whole- 
some and  not  expensive  in  their  new  English  money, 
which  Mervyn  handled  clumsily. 

After  that  the  National  Gallery.  But  this — then — 
was  ill-arranged  and  depressing — so  much  of  Turner 
at  his  worst  and  an  overdose  of  Landseer.  They  came 
out  again  and  crossed  to  the  south  side  of  Cockspur 
Street,  just  as  a  Waterloo  bus  was  stopping  to  put  down 
passengers.  Mervyn  saw  on  it  "  Zoological  Gardens." 
He  gripped  Jeanne  by  the  arm  and  said  decidedly 
"  Let's  get  in  here  "  :  then  to  the  conductor  "  You  go 
to  the  Zoological  Gardens.  Isn't  that  so?"  "That's 
so,"  said  the  conductor. 

With  his  directions  they  found  the  Zoo  and  were 
enraptured.  Then,  south  of  that,  the  Royal  Botanic, 
and  were  thrilled.  Mervyn,  for  the  reason  of  interest 
in  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.  had  already  studied 
Botany,  but  Calais  had  little  scope  for  exhibition  and 
a  visit  to  Brussels  had  only  stimulated  an  interest  which 
could  never  be  slaked.  However,  here  they  had  met 
with  an  obstacle  which  ended  ever  so  pleasantly.  It 
was  not  like  the  Zoo,  where  you  came  in  by  paying; 
and  when  they  first  presented  themselves  at  a  lodge 
the  porter  was  very  doubtful  about  admitting  them. 
Had  they  been  plain  of  feature  he  would  have  been 
adamant,  but  their  good  looks,  innocence,  and  eager 
eyes  softened  his  corrugated  heart.  He  said  he'd  go 
and  ask  the  Curator,  since  the  lady  was  wanting  to 
return  to  France  that  evening ;  and  the  Curator  hearing, 
shyly  mentioned,  the  magic  name  of  John  Harmon,  not 
only  admitted  them  but  gave  them  tea  on  his  private 
lawn  after  taking  them  through  the  more  interesting 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  121 

exhibits;  and — with  Mr.  Harmon's  recommendation 
to  be  obtained  later — promised  to  put  up  Mervyn  for 
membership. 

Then  they  went  out  once  more  into  a  hard  world — 
from  water-lily-covered  waters,  swans  and  cygnets  and 
gorgeous  flower  beds  and  a  band — into  dowdy  Albany 
Street  and  caught  another  Waterloo  bus  which,  by 
some  magic,  took  them  all  the  way  to  opposite  the  top 
of  Villiers  Street, 

At  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop  the  grim  landlady,  hear- 
ing that  Miss  Veneering  was  purposing  to  return  to 
Calais  by  the  evening  train,  thought  she  might  arrange 
an  early  mixture  of  tea  and  dinner,  if  Mr.  Veneering 
would  consider  such  as  his  last  meal  that  day — so  far 
as  she  was  concerned.  And  at  six,  Jeanne  and  Mervyn 
sat  down  to  a  repast  of  well-grilled  chops,  new  pota- 
toes, well-made  English  tea  and  open  jam  tart.  At 
eight  o'clock  that  evening  Mervyn,  trying  hard  to  re- 
member he  was  nearly  eighteen  and  almost  a  man,  bade 
farewell  to  his  sister  outside  a  second-class  compart- 
ment in  the  Continental  train;  and  Jeanne  tried  to  as- 
sume something  of  the  mother — she  was  two  years 
older — in  her  tone  and  to  speak  without  a  squeak  or  a 
gulp.  But  it  was  hard!  And  when  various  guards 
said  "  Stand  aside,  please !  "  and  the  train  slowly  moved, 
Jeanne  could  utter  no  words ;  only  purse  her  pretty  lips, 
and  make  dumb  gestures  of  farewell. 

Mervyn,  for  his  part,  felt  equally  near  tears;  but 
hardened  as  he  re-entered  Villiers  Street.  It  was  too 
early  to  go  in  and  go  to  bed;  to  enter  a  theatre  might 
be  too  venturesome  before  he  had  even  slept  a  night 
in  London;  so  he  walked  several  times  up  and  down 
the  Strand  to  familiarise  himself  with  the  great  City. 
Vicious  faces  looked  into  his,  then  turned  away  from 
his  candid  counter-glance,  which  did  not  even  classify 
them  as  wicked.  He  felt  a  little  bewildered,  greatly 
puzzled,  here  and  there  interested  in  the  still  open  shops ; 


122  THE  VENEERINGS 

and  at  last  re-entered  his  Old  Curiosity  Shop  under  the 
frowning  stare  of  the  landlady — wearing  a  preposter- 
ous bonnet  and  looking  like  a  caricature  of  prevailing 
fashions.  She  had  either  just  come  in  or  was  just 
going  out  to  renew  her  contact  with  Fashion.  Timidly 
wishing  her  "  Good-night,"  Mervyn  went  upstairs,  lit 
his  candle,  and  betook  himself  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  after  consulting  with  -his  land- 
lady, he  took  the  underground  railway  to  Mark  Lane 
and  found  himself  utterly  dazed  with  the  City's  roar 
and  swiftly  walking  crowds.  Policemen  guided  him 
from  point  to  point  till  he  stood  in  front  of  Harmon 
and  Veneering's  cheerful  court  in  Mincing  Lane.  The 
sight  of  his  own  surname,  there  emblazoned,  put  cour- 
age and  hope  into  him.  The  poor  old  dad,  after  all, 
had  not  perhaps  been  such  a  ghastly  failure  as  he  and 
Jeanne  had  thought  him.  He  had  once  sat  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  although  there  had  been  a  disturbing  sugges- 
tion of  a  financial  failure  when  he  and  Jeanne  had  been 
little  children,  that  had  seemingly  passed  away;  and 
it  was  only  health,  or  age,  or  disinclination  which  had 
prevented  him  from  resuming  his  partnership  in  this 
glorious  undertaking,  this  great  attempt  to  co-ordinate 
and  classify  and  chemically  prepare  for  sick  humanity's 
consumption  the  world's  vegetable  drugs. 

He  walked  in,  thrilled  for  once  that  he  could  reply 
"  Veneering  "  when  asked  his  name,  and  see  the  effect 
on  the  young  deputy  hall  porter's  face.  And  soon  after- 
wards he  was  being  warmly  shaken  hands  with  by  kind 
old  Mr.  Wilfer,  who  almost  seemed  to  have  tears  in 
his  blue  eyes  as  he  repeatedly  told  him  he  was  welcome. 
He  had,  of  course,  learnt  something  about  the  Wilfer 
history.  The  great  partner,  Mr.  Harmon  (Mr.  Wilfer 
had  declined  to  have  his  own  name  put  into  the  business 
in  place  of  Veneering's),  was  travelling  just  then:  he 
very  often  went  abroad  for  a  short  time  on  supreme 
drug  business — just  then  he  was  in  Sweden — but  he 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  123 

had  left  full  instructions  about  Veneering's  work  and 
place  in  the  business :  he  was  to  begin  as  Mr.  Wilfer's 
private  secretary. 

A  few  days  later,  when  he  was  feeling  quite  accus- 
tomed to  London  life  and  generally  made  his  journeys 
to  and  from  the  office,  in  Mincing  Lane,  by  river 
steamer  (for  the  joy  of  the  changing  scenery  and  the 
visible  history),  he  was  seated  eating  his  London  break- 
fast preparatory  to  starting  for  his  office  work;  the 
landlady  threw  open  his  sitting-room  door  with  a  ges- 
ture from  the  stage  and  exclaimed :  "  Mist'  Rarmon  " ; 
and  John  Harmon  walked  into  his  room  and  stretched 
out  a  friendly  hand  to  shake  his. 

"  I  returned  last  night  from  abroad  and  thought  I 
would  come  over  and  find  you  here  before  I  went  down 
to  Gloucestershire.  Wilfer  sent  on  your  London  ad- 
dress to  my  house  in  Wigmore  Street.  You're  evi- 
dently a  young  man  of  some  originality,  boldly  to  take 
up  your  quarters  in  this  region  of  banditti.  I  ought 
to  have  let  your  mother  know  I  was  starting  off.  to 
Sweden  and  she  could  then  have  consulted  some  one 
else  as  to  lodgings.  However " 

"  I  really  think  this  place  is  alright,  Mr.  Harmon. 
Somehow  I  like  it.  Jeanne  actually  decided  on  it  and 
you  may  remember  she  makes  up  her  mind  very  quickly. 
She  said — amongst  other  things — that  no  one  who 
traded  in  beautiful  old  furniture  could  be  wicked.  And 
then  it  is  so  splendidly  near  Charing  Cross  station. 
.  .  .  And  that's  why — besides  Mr.  Wilfer's  kindness 
— I  haven't,  so  far,  been  a  bit  home-sick.  I  look  across 
to  the  bridge  and  the  trains  and  I  always  feel  I  could 
start  off  for  Calais  and  home  any  morning  or  evening." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,  I  suppose,"  said  Harmon, 
watching  his  eager  eyes  and  catching  the  little  click  in 
the  voice  when  the  boy  treated  of  "  home."  "  At  any 
rate  I  shall  keep  an  eye  on  you  and  expect  to  play  the 
heavy  father  if  you  get  into  difficulties.  /  had  to  face 


124  THE  VENEERINGS 

life  when  I  was  four  years  younger  than  you,  and  a 
wholesome  lad's  own  instincts  are  his  best  guides  to 
companionship.  You  must  come  down  and  see  us  in 
the  country  a  little  later  on.  Wilfer  has  already  ex- 
pressed his  approval  of  you.  Now,  if  you've  eaten  all 
the  breakfast  you  want,  we  might  start  off  for  the 
office  together  and  talk  as  we  go." 

They  walked  to  a  river  pier  and  shortly  after  arriv- 
ing went  on  board  a  down-stream  steamer. 

In  those  days  a  fleet  of  small  paddle  steamers  plied 
up  and  down  the  Thames  between  Richmond  and  Bark- 
ing or  some  such  place  in  the  dock  region.  They  may 
not  have  been  so  swift  as  the  trains  in  the  tunnels  of 
the  then  choking  underground  railway,  but  they  were 
infinitely  pleasanter  in  fine  weather.  Harmon  was 
colossally  rich — or  thought  to  be — for  those  days,  but 
he  kept  most  of  his  carriages  and  coachmen  down  in 
the  country  and  only  one  brougham  in  London  for 
going  out  at  night.  Although  now  a  man  of  forty- 
eight  or  forty-nine,  he  was  fond  of  walking  when  time 
permitted,  of  walking  about  London.  It  kept  him  spare 
of  figure,  observant  of  great  and  little  things.  The 
omnibuses  of  those  days  were  still  repulsive :  crowded, 
smelly,  and  fleaey  inside,  and  singularly  uncomfortable 
outside;  the  cleaner  and  more  spacious  trams  were  not 
allowed  to  penetrate  north  of  Westminster  and  Black- 
friars  bridges  or  south  of  Clerkenwell.  Probably  the 
Metropolitan  Board  of  Works  still  governed  London, 
and  with  its  soul  of  a  successful  builder  hated  assist- 
ance to  the  general  public  or  anything  but  a  pettifog- 
ging parish  policy.  Happily,  as  John  Harmon  said, 
the  river  steamers  still  persisted,  though  (as  John  Har- 
mon described  to  Mervyn)  the  underground  railway 
management  and  the  omnibus  companies  were  agitat- 
ing to  have  them  removed  or  decried. 

Harmon,  during  the  quarter  of  an  hour's  swirl  down 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  125 

the  Thames  to  the  Mark  Lane  landing-place,  told 
Mervyn  he  had  been  elected  to  Parliament  for  Tewkes- 
bury  at  the  last  general  election,  a  few  months  pre- 
viously, and  he  was  hoping,  if  only  Mr.  Gladstone  could 
be  kept  off  cutting  down  the  Empire  and  abandoning 
Candahar,  some  bold  new  policy  in  regard  to  London 
and  its  proper  government  might  be  inaugurated.  "Our 
public  education  is  shockingly  bad,  wildly  inappropriate 
to  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century;  and  the 
government  of  London  is  simply  inchoate — if  you 
know  what  that  word  means." 

In  August  of  that  year  came  about  Mervyn's  first 
visit  to  the  Harmons'  house  in  Gloucestershire.  "  If 
it  is  in  Gloucestershire,"  said  his  host  as  they  were 
driving  over  the  Severn  bridge.  "I  think  the  house  is 
in  Worcestershire  and  the  gardens  are  in  Gloucester : 
something  of  that  kind.  I  had  a  kind  of  idea  my 
grandfather  came  from  these  parts;  and  then  the  situa- 
tion just  suited  my  plans  for  a  sweet  home  in  the  coun- 
try, close  to  water  power,  and  with  experimental  gar- 
dens for  growing  at  least  a  third  of  the  drugs  we  use. 
We  have  one  of  the  best  climates  in  England  here,  in 
the  Lower  Severn  valley ;  we  are  in  or  near  the  loveliest 
scenery;  the  western  counties  are  packed  with  history 
— the  Romans — by  Jove ! — were  no  fools.  They  knew 
good  country  when  they  saw  it,  and  thought  much 
more  of  Wales  than  did  the  Anglo-Saxons.  At  the 
same  time,  as  you  must  already  know,  these — round 
about  me  here — are  not  our  only  herb  gardens.  For 
some  things  that  like  the  chalk  soil  we  have  the  hun- 
dred acres  near  Lee  on  the  Eltham  Road,  managed, 
you  remember — you've  seen  them? — from  the  house 
at  Lee  Green  where  the  Boffins  lived.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
afraid  we  shall  have  to  give  that  up:  it  is  getting  so 
crowdingly  built  over  round  about,  and  the  air  is  be- 


126  THE  VENEERINGS 

coming  so  smoky.  Then,  of  course,  there  is  the  French 
place  that  I  got  through  Mrs.  Lammle — or  Madame 
de  Lamelle  as  she  calls  herself — in  the  Pyrenees.  You 
must  go  there  in  one  of  your  holidays.  To  me — and 
thank  goodness  they  seem  to  be  to  you — these  prop- 
erties, these  experiments  in  cultivation  are  of  the  most 
thrilling  interest.  Can't  think  why  they  don't  seem  to 
be  so  to  my  boys — Reggie  and  John !  I  believe  their 
public  schools  have  given  them  the  idea  that  there  is 
something  '  low  '  about  a  druggist's  business ;  whereas 
it  is  full  of  romance  and  uplifting.  Your  father  had 
a  glimpse  of  that  in  the  'fifties,  but  the  pursuit  of  poli- 
tics pulled  him  down." 

"  Poor  old  Dad.  I  have  never  quite  been  able  to 
make  him  out,  Mr.  Harmon,  since  I  dared  to  form 
opinions  about  any  one.  Jeanne,  who  is  so  sweet  to 
most  people,  seems  hard  about  him.  He  certainly  takes 
no  interest  in  botany  now ;  at  least,  in  his  travels  about 
Europe  he  doesn't  seem  to  go  to  botanical  gardens  or 
museums  or — or — drug  manufactories.  .  .  .  Yet  his 
name  is  in  our  business.  I  always  think  that  ought  to 
make  him  proud " 

"  Well,  perhaps  some  day  it  may  be  yowr  name ; 
that's  what  you  must  work  for.  And  if  you  work,  I 
shan't  fail  you  in  encouragement.  P'raps  when  the 
two  boys  have  got  through  their  wretched  public 
schools,  where  they  seem  to  learn  nothing  of  reality 
or  importance,  except  games  and  bad  language,  they 
may  come  to  see  the  tremendous  interest  of  drugs,  of 
vegetable  chemistry,  of  the  possible  mastery  over  all 
diseases.  .  .  .  Sanders,  there's  something  wrong  with 
that  mare's  ears,  inside  'em ;  I  mean,  some  beastly  bur- 
rowing grub  or  beetle " 

"  She's  bin  like  that,  Sir,  ever  since  she  came  back 
from  the  fields.  I'll  take  her  into  the  vet.  at  Tewkes- 
bury,  one  of  these  days." 

"  Better  bring  her  round  to  me  to-morrow  morning. 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  127 

I  know  as  much  about  beasts  and  their  ailments  as  most 
vets.  .  .  .  And  that  isn't  much,"  said  Harmon,  turn- 
ing with  a  laugh  to  Mervyn. 

They  had  arrived.  Chacely  Priory,  which  had  been 
a  flourishing  establishment  in  the  Middle  Ages,  had 
been  laicised  in  Henry  VIII. 's  reign  for  the  greed  of 
some  courtier,  and  had  figured  somewhat  in  English 
history  as  the  abode  of  three  spendthrift,  rakish  fami- 
lies down  to  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Then  it  had  somehow  come  down  in  the  world,  and 
had  even  become,  they  said,  a  farmhouse  in  William 
IV.'s  reign.  A  Bristol  manufacturer  had  retired  there 
in  1840,  and  had  horribly  vulgarised  it.  His  son  had 
over-spent  and  over-drunk  and  over-married ;  and  John 
Harmon  had  bought  the  place  and  much  added  land 
in  1870,  just  in  time  to  save  it  from  a  worse  fate;  from 
being  turned  into  a  manufactory  of  something  useful 
but  unpleasant,  based  on  the  water  power  of  the  hill 
streams  behind  it,  westward,  and  the  Severn,  two^or 
three  miles  to  the  east. 

Harmon,  prospecting  in  this  region  for  traces  of  his 
ancestry,  and  still  more  for  the  site  of  a  possible  great 
herb  garden,  had  thought  Chacely  Priory  a  very  good 
place  to  live  and  work  at.  With  his  growing-up  family 
of  two  boys  and  three  girls  he  wanted  a  real  home  in 
the  country,  sufficiently  far  away  from  London.  His 
last  child,  Helen — Helen  Stansfield,  after  his  almost 
forgotten  mother — had  been  born  there.  "  I'm  the 
only  one  of  us,"  she  was  already  saying,  "  who  isn't  a 
Cockney." 

The  house  in  Wigmore  Street  had  been  turned  very 
much  into  a  museum  of  samples  and  a  place  for  study, 
affording  just  enough  accommodation  to  John  for  his 
business  as  a  drug  merchant  and  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  to  Bella  for  brief  visits  to  London  in  the 
spring  and  autumn. 

Bella  had  grown  to  hate  the  great  City,  especially 


128  THE  VENEERINGS 

during  the  close  of  the  'sixties,  when  Cecilia  out  at 
Hornsey,  Reggie  the  racing  tout,  and  even  the  thor- 
oughly, ferociously  respectable  Lavvy  at  Fulham,  had 
become,  or  were  tending  to  become,  compromising  or 
vexatiously  boring  and  clamorous.  Wealth,  however, 
can  do  everything,  and  do  most  things  respectably. 
John,  her  husband,  had  smoothed  over  the  difficulties 
of  odious  Cecilia  and  her  crack-brained  husband,  and 
persuaded  them  to  emigrate  to  Tasmania  or  some  other 
distant  but  healthy  part  of  the  British  Empire,  where 
he  gave  them  a  thousand  pounds  to  buy  a  chemist's 
business;  and  a  somewhat  similar  transaction  had  sent 
Reggie  away  from  the  trampled  race-courses  and  the 
Birmingham  betting  centres  to  British  Columbia. 
Susan,  they  hoped,  might  never  leave  New  Zealand, 
where  she  had  married  a  few  years  since  for  the  third 
time. 

And  as  to  John,  of  Opotiki,  in  the  North  Island  of 
Antipodial  Britain :  he  was  now  a  man  of  forty-five, 
happily  married,  father  of  a  large  family,  owner  of 
twelve  thousand  acres,  active  and  successful  in  his 
search  for  native  drugs,  and  a  sort  of  agent  in  that  far- 
off  region  for  his  brother-in-law's  City  firm  of  Harmon 
and  Veneering.  John  and  Lavvy,  in  fact,  were  the  only 
members  of  the  Wilfer  family,  besides  Bella,  who  had 
turned  out  satisfactorily.  The  one  thing  they  could 
hope  for  in  regard  to  the  others  was  that  they  had  been 
shipped  to  a  sufficient  distance  (at  great  expense)  never 
to  return  or  cause  any  more  bother. 

Chacely  Priory  faced  southward  in  its  imposing 
aspect,  and  from  its  terraced  garden  you  had  satisfying 
views  of  the  broad  Severn,  sliding  down  through 
meadows,  woods,  and  ancient  villages  towards  Glouces- 
ter. From  the  northern  side  of  the  house,  Tewkes- 
bury  houses  and  cedars  and  the  junction  of  Avon  and 
Severn  were  visible,  beyond  clusters  of  trees,  snug  vil- 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  129 

lages,  and  farmhouses.  The  ground  about  the  beauti- 
ful old  house  and  its  large-windowed  chapel — now  the 
middle  drawing-room,  the  chief  sitting-room  of  the 
family — was  divided  into  terraces  and  lawns  for 
flowers,  croquet  and  tennis ;  and  there  was  a  large  field 
for  cricket.  But  beyond  these  and  a  small  village  for 
out-door  servants  and  gardeners,  there  were  experi- 
mental gardens  planted  with  innumerable  drug-yield- 
ing plants.  Here  and  there  was  the  glint  of  glass,  re- 
vealing, if  you  studied  details,  long  rows  of  green- 
houses. But  all  the  experimental,  businesslike,  prac- 
tical portion  of  the  estate  was  so  arranged  as  not  to 
be  too  conspicuous  to  the  eye  of  a  fantastic  landscape 
lover,  especially  in  the  views  seen  from  both  sides  of 
the  house.  In  a  lesser  drawing-room,  seated  behind  a 
tea-table  and  reading  a  book,  was  his  host's  wife,  the 
"  Bella "  of  whom  Mervyn  had  heard  so  much. 
She  gave  her  left  hand  to  her  husband  to  kiss  and  her 
right  to  Mervyn,  and  then  introduced  her  three  daugh- 
ters, Hetty,  Lizzie,  and  Helen.  Hetty  must  have  been 
about  sixteen,  on  the  borderline  between  girlhood  and 
womanhood,  Lizzie — he  afterwards  learnt — was  eleven, 
and  Helen  nine.  They  had  really  stayed  in  and  pro- 
tracted their  tea,  away  from  the  rather  noisy  rest  of 
the  party,  out  of  sheer  curiosity :  what  was  Mervyn 
Veneering  going  to  be  like?  Mervyn  divined  this  and 
felt  unusually  shy  and  gawky.  But  his  host  boldly  took 
the  course  of  alluding  to  him  as  "  Mervyn  "  and  lead- 
ing them  to  infer  that,  on  the  way  over  from  Tewkes- 
bury,  they  had  discussed  much  business  concerning 
the  firm's  policy.  John  Harmon  sat  by  Bella  as  he 
talked  and  tea'ed,  and  Bella  kept  kind  eyes  on  Mervyn's 
awkward  movements  and  blushing  cheeks.  The  three 
girls  plied  him  with  nice  things  to  eat  without  undue 
attention  or  awkward  overplus  on  plate.  And  the  shy- 
ness wore  off,  especially  when  Harmon  said,  "  You're 
all  much  of  an  age,  seems  to  me,  and  had  better  begin 


130  THE  VENEERINGS 

and  end  with  Christian  names.  This,  Mervyn,"  en- 
circling her  slim  waist  with  an  arm,  "  is  Hetty— don't 
forget — Arabella  Henrietta,  after  her  two  grand- 
mothers, so  to  speak — her  real  grannie,  my  Bella's 
mother,  and  her  adopted  grannie,  dear  old  Mrs.  Boffin ; 
and  this — put  down  the  cake  and  come  along  here,  miss, 
to  be  properly  explained — this  is  Lizzie,  otherwise 
Elizabeth  Harmon,  duly  named  after  one  of  the  sweet- 
est and  best  women  we  have  ever  known — Mrs.  Wray- 
burn;  and  this  last  with  the  turn-up  nose  and  saucy 
eyes — we  are  all  hoping  the  nose  will  grow  up  in  the 
middle — is  Helen,  named  after  my  poor  mother.  For 
nine  years  we  have  fought  against  the  tendency  to  call 
her  '  Nellie ' :  Helen  is  a  beautiful  name,  and  you  must 
never  call  her  anything  else.  And  now  to  make  every- 
thing fair  all  round,  this,  my  daughters,  is  Mervyn 
Veneering,  who's  come  into  our  business  in  succession 
to  his  father.  He's  going  to  be  a  great  man  some  day, 
in  botany  above  all,  so  you  must  treat  him  with  a  cer- 
tain reverence;  but  otherwise  he's  a  very  nice  lad,  only 
two  years  older  than  Hetty.  And  now,  if  we've  all 
finished,  let's  go  out  and  play  something — croquet, 
tennis,  cricket." 

They  went  out  on  to  the  terrace.  Here,  walking  up 
and  down,  were  Mortimer  Lightwood  and  Aunt  Isa- 
bella Medlicott — the  "  Aunt  Izzy  "  of  the  children. 
"  Lightwood,"  said  Harmon,  "  this  is  Mervyn  Veneer- 
ing, son  of  your  old  client  at  Calais;  our  already  in- 
valuable shorthand  secretary — why  weren't  we  all 
taught  shorthand  at  school,  before  everything  else, 
after  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic  ?  You  can  never 
learn  it  when  you're  turned  thirty,  as  I  am.  And 
Mervyn,  this  is  Aunt  Izzy,  eternally  young  and  beauti- 
ful, known  to  the  world  as  Miss  Isabella  Medlicott, 
but  I  dare  say  she  will  let  you  call  her  Aunt  Izzy,  as 
she  does  with  all  really  nice  people  who  are  under 
twenty." 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  131 

Mortimer  Lightwood  was  a  rather  cynical-looking 
gentleman  about  Mr.  Harmon's  own  age,  who  used,  in 
these  later  days,  an  eye-glass  when  he  wished  to  make 
sure  of  anything  or  anybody;  but  after  all  he  had  ad- 
vised Mervyn's  father  for  many  years  over  his  affairs, 
so  Mervyn  turned  to  him  as  to  a  friend;  and  from 
Aunt  Izzy — a  large  and  stout  lady,  with  only  the  slight- 
est resemblance  to  the  gaunt  Mrs.  Wilfer — he  received 
a  cordial  greeting,  based  chiefly  on  his  good  looks  and 
the  romance  attaching  to  a  young  fellow  who  had  lived 
chiefly  on  the  wicked  Continent. 

Then  they  passed  on  below  the  first  terrace  of  flowers 
to  the  tennis  lawns.  Here,  there  were  Reggie  and 
Johnny  Harmon  playing  a  rather  angry  game  of  ten- 
nis with  a  disputed  score.  A  pony,  which  had  ob- 
viously no  business  on  the  cricket  field  beyond,  was 
passing  a  head  over  the  hedge  and  listening  to  their 
dispute.  "  Boys,"  called  out  their  father,  "  come  and 
make  Mervyn's  acquaintance;  you  can  call  him  in  as 
umpire  in  your  dispute." 

A  little  ungraciously,  and  still  with  a  frown  on  his 
handsome  boyish  face,  Reggie  Harmon — whose  life 
so  far  had  been  extraordinarily  embittered  by  his  mid- 
dle name  being  Boffin,  and  Eton  having,  in  conse- 
quence, refused  to  know  him  under  any  other  desig- 
nation than  Muffin — Reggie  Harmon  came  forward, 
whisking  his  tennis  racquet,  and  shook  Mervyn's  hand; 
so  also  did  the  slyer-looking  Johnny.  Mervyn  listened 
to  the  matter  in  dispute — a  trumped-up  squabble  be- 
tween two  over-petted,  insufficiently-exercised,  un- 
whipped  boys — and  pronounced  quite  a  clever  verdict, 
which  a  little  surprised  and  impressed  them.  He  talked 
to  them  about  French  tennis — the  real  thing — and  they 
became  interested.  He  played  a  game  of  lawn  tennis 
with  Reggie  and  beat  him  handsomely,  though  evi- 
dently a  novice  on  the  grass.  Then  he  went  through 
a  game  with  Johnny  and  was  more  easily  victorious. 


132  THE  VENEERINGS 

Then  they  took  him  for  a  walk  round  the  nearer  part 
of  the  estate,  and  brought  him  back  in  time  to  "  dress  " 
for  dinner,  while  they  went  off  to  a  noisy  tea-fight  in 
the  schoolroom. 

It  was  obvious  that  Reggie  despised  any  young  male 
who  had  not  been  or  was  not  going  through  Eton,  and 
therefore  Mervyn  must  always  suffer  an  under-estima- 
tion  on  that  account ;  at  the  same  time,  it  partly  satisfied 
his  elder-brother-jealousy  of  Johnny  that  their  father 
destined  him  for  the  lesser  status  of  Harrow,  and  to 
Harrow  Johnny  was  going  next  month.  Mervyn,  of 
course,  had  undergone  the  damaging  process  of  having 
been  brought  up  abroad — in  itself  a  terrible  handicap; 
and,  of  course,  it  was  understood  that  he  was  impelled 
by  his  position  to  work  in  the  City  like  a  clerk,  and  to 
take  an  interest  in  those  beastly  drugs.  Why  would 
father  always  talk  about  them,  just  as  though  he  was 
a  chemist!  It  made  Reggie's  cheeks  burn  with  shame 
when  county  people  came  to  tea  or  tennis,  or  even — 
he  believed — dinner,  and  father  went  on  about  his  drug 
discoveries  and  researches.  .  .  .  Still,  Mervyn's  han- 
dling of  a  racquet  inspired  respect,  and  he  was  tall  for 
eighteen  and  manly-looking :  characteristics  that  seemed 
oddly  at  variance  with  his  knowledge  of  French. 
Reggie's  father,  it  was  true,  had  a  remarkable  com- 
mand of  that  language,  but  then  father  was  altogether 
"  odd  "  and  was  only  saved,  in  his  son's  estimation, 
by  his  seat  in  Parliament,  his  standing  in  the  county, 
and  the  fact  that  the  county  swells  were  unquestionably 
his  friends.  Reggie  forgave  his  father  much  because 
he  was  vouched  for  by  Lady  Feenix,  the  other  side  of 
the  Severn,  and  Lady  Feenix,  in  Reggie's  eyes,  was 
unquestionable.  He  adored  her.  though  he  would  never 
dare  to  tell  her  so. 

In  one  way  and  another  Mervyn  passed  an  absolutely 
happy  week  at  Chacely  Priory.  Bella  saw  his  happi- 
ness, and  pleaded  with  her  John  that  he  should  be 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  133 

pressed  to  stay  on;  the  girls  liked  him  ever  so  much; 
the  boys  were  impressed  by  him,  and  he  even  seemed 
to  be  doing  them  good  by  his  enthusiasm  for  science. 
Aunt  Izzy  said  he  was  a  perfect  darling,  and  even 
Mortimer  Lightwood  expressed  surprise  that  such  a 
being  could  have  Hamilton  Veneering  for  father  and 
Anastasia  for  mother. 

"  Ah,"  said  John,  "  you  don't  know  what  life  in 
France  has  made  of  Annie  Veneering;  she  is  an  alto- 
gether different  creature  to  the  vapid  idiot  that  once 
dispensed  hospitality  in  Stucconia.  But  as  to  Mervyn, 
we  mustn't  spoil  him.  I'll  pretend  I  dislike  him,  am 
disappointed  in  him,  sooner  than  he  shall  be  spoilt 
untimely." 

So  Mervyn  went  back  to  London  at  the  end  of  Au- 
gust, with  the  prospect  of  a  visit  to  Chacely  at  Christ- 
mas time,  and  once  more  lived  at  the  Old  Curiosity 
Shop  in  Villiers  Street  and  studied  the  amazingly  in- 
teresting human  products  of  the  Strand. 

In  the  partners'  room  at  Harmon  and  Veneering' s 
office  in  Mincing  Lane,  in  the  following  October,  Mr. 
Wilfer  touched  the  spring  bell  that  stood  on  his  writing 
table.  It  gave  a  long,  clear,  resonant  sound — there 
was  no  nonsense  or  avoidable  cause  of  wasted  time  in 
this  establishment.  Mervyn  entered  in  response  to  its 
noise,  and  "  Mervyn,"  said  old  Mr.  Wilfer,  "  I  have 
to  see  a  rather  trying  person  this  afternoon,  and  I  look 
to  you  to  help  me  to  make  the  interview  as  little  dis- 
agreeable as  possible.  Her  name  "  (looking  at  a  letter 
in  an  envelope),  "her  name  is  'Mrs.  Venables,'  and 
she  comes  from  New  Zealand.  But  she  is  in  other  as- 
pects my  daughter  Susan,  or  Susie,  as  she  preferred 
to  be  called.  For  a  long  time  she  was  known  as  '  Susie 
Wilbraham/  a  stage  name,  and  if  your  childish  memory 
was — what  shall  I  say,  phenomenal  ?  you  could  remem- 
ber her  by  that,  because  she  stayed  some  months  with 


134  THE  VENEERINGS 

your  mother  at  Calais  when  you  were  a  little  boy  of 
—of " 

"Of  between  three  and  four.  I  have  only  the  dim- 
mest recollections  of  her.  Jeanne  remembered  her  bet- 
ter; but  as  we  grew  up  we  had  a  sort  of  notion — I 
don't  know  who  told  us — that  it  was — no  longer — no 
longer " 

"  No  longer  proper  to  talk  about  her  ?  I  dare  say. 
We  won't  go  into  that.  There  were  many  sad  stories 
about  her  in  earlier  days.  However,  she  went  out  to 
— to — New  Zealand — and — lived  at  first  with  my  eldest 
son  John,  out  there,  a  man  no  longer  young,  who  has 
got  on  surprisingly  well — I  am  glad  to  say — and  is  in 
touch  with  our  firm  here.  Married  a  very  nice  wife — 
a  German — Crete  Wilfer — coming  over  to  see  us  some 
day.  .  .  .  Must  make  haste,  I  begin  to  tell  her  in  my 
letters.  I'm  seventy-two,  now,  and  John's  mother,  my 
poor  wife,  died  more  than  two  years  ago.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, about  Susan — Mrs.  Venables  as  she  is  now.  She 
had  made  quite  a  nice  bit  of  money — on  the  stage 
mostly — when  she  went  out  to  New  Zealand  in  1867, 
and  she  wasn't  long  out  there  before  she  got  married. 
Then  all  sorts  of  troubles  came  on  her.  .  .  .  However, 
I  haven't  time  to  tell  you  the  rest  of  her  story  now. 
She  ought  to  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  if  she  is 
punctual.  I  asked  her  to  call  on  a  Saturday  afternoon, 
because — well,  after  fifteen  or  more  years  I — I — hardly 
— know.  .  .  .  But  I  expect  by  now,  as  it's  a  fine  after- 
noon, we  haven't  any  other  people  indoors  besides 
Slopey,  you,  and  me.  But — dear  boy — unless  you're 
very  particularly  pledged — er — don't  go  away — till  she 
has  gone.  Stay  here  and  see  me  through  the  after- 
noon, and  I'll  find  some  other  holiday  occasion  for 
you " 

"  Of  course  I  will,  Mr.  Wilfer.  We  never  made 
such  a  fuss  about  Saturday  in  France  as  they're  be- 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  135 

ginning  to  make  here ;  but  then,  of  course,  we  had  ever 
so  much  jollier  Sundays.  .  .  .  But  didn't  you  want 
also  to  say  something  about  those  three  kinds  of 
Strophanthus  seeds  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did,  and  a  very  good  thing  to  fill  up 
the  time,  both  before  she  comes  and  after  she's  gone. 
Get  out  the  trays.  I'll  dictate  something  to  you  and 
your  wonderful  shorthand.  I  thought  we  ought  to 
send  them  on  down  to  Kew,  for  examination,  next 
Monday  or  Tuesday.  They're  South  African  and 
South-East  African;  the  strongest  seem  to  come  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  Delagoa  Bay." 

Mervyn  Veneering  borrowed  the  old  partner's  keys, 
went  to  a  case  in  a  corner  of  a  locked  cupboard,  and 
presently  placed  three  open  trays  before  Mr.  Wilfer. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  latter,  "  Strophanthus  courmonti — 
Strophanthus  potersianus,  and — and — Strophanthus 
kombe,  seemingly  the  strongest.  How  like  these  are 
to  melon  seeds!  .  .  .  This  is  going  to  be  an  amazing 
drug  for  certain  heart  troubles  and  for " 

Voices  outside.  The  uncouth-looking  but  extremely 
important  and  authoritative  hall  porter  comes  in :  "A 
lady  to  see  you,  Mr.  Wilfer." 

"  Quite  so.  Quite  so.  Ready  in  a  moment.  Mer- 
vyn! Just  help  me  put  these  trays  on  this  table.  I 
think  I  will  sit  here ;  there  is  more  light  and  I  want  to 
sort  these  seeds  before  I  go.  There!  one  tray  in  front 
of  me,  and  one  on  either  hand.  I  want  to  be  quite  sure 
that  they  are  all  separated  and  not  mixed.  The  dis- 
tinction is  small  but  quite  noticeable  when  I  have  my 
glasses  on.  Now  you  can  go  back  to  the  clerk's  room, 
and — and — do  any  letters  you  have  on  hand — and  if 
I  want  you,  I  will  touch  the  bell.  I  am  quite  ready 
now,  Slopey." 

Slopey  retires,  returns,  and  announces  "  Mrs.  Ven- 
ables." 


136  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Oh,  Susie,  my  dear!  What  a  time  since  we  last 
met !  What  a  time !  You  heard,  I  suppose — you  must 
have  heard  of  your  poor  Mamma's  death?  " 

"  Oh,  /  heard  somehow ;  but  it  wasn't  about  that  I 
came  to  see  you.  There  was  never  much  love  lost 
between  mother  and  myself.  Can't  remember  I  was 
ever  indebted  to  her  in  any  way,  except,  of  course, 
giving  me  birth  and  bringing  me  up  till  I  was  able  to 
eat.  Well,  Pa,  you  don't  look  so  bad — done  pretty 
well  for  yourself  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  my  dear,  very  well — very  well — 
after  fifty-two  years  of  work — thanks  to  John 
Harmon " 

"  Then  you'll  be  ready  to  help  me  when  I  want  it. 
You  know  I'm  forty-four  and  pretty  well  sick  of  men. 
The  last — Venables — was  a  horror.  Whatever  in- 
duced me  to  marry  him,  /  can't  think ;  but  I  was  always 
weak  where  men  were  concerned.  In  three  years  he'd 
spent  all  the  money  I'd  saved  and  earned  and  left  me 
with  just  about  enough — before  he  died  of  delirium 
tremens — to  pay  for  a  first-class  passage  back  home 
again  and  a  hundred  pounds  over  to  keep  me  while  I 
was  looking  round  for  something  to  do.  'Spose  the 
best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  live  with  you  and  look  after 
you  now  mother's  gone " 

"  Well — er — as  to  that,  you  know,  I'm  afraid  that 
wouldn't  do.  You'd  find  it  very  dull  in  Chelsea 
amongst  the  artists  and  writers — I  should  think  so,  at 
least — and  then  Lavvy  is  not  far  off,  with  quite  a 
rising  family,  and  she  and  her  daughters  give  me  an 
eye.  I'm  still  rather  a  busy  man — a  partner,  here,  you 
know.  Our  business  is  very  important — and  John 
Harmon,  the  head  of  it,  is  abroad  just  now — and  then, 
again,  as  to  Lavvy,  she — she's  not  very  easy  to  get  on 
with — Good  Heavens!  What  have  you  been  doing?  " 

Susie  was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  breathing  ster- 
torously,  her  eyes  half -closed  showing  the  under- whites, 


AFTER  THIRTEEN  YEARS  137 

her  face  a  dull  purple.  On  her  lower  lip  were  frag- 
ments of  the  tough  skins  of  the  flat,  melon-like  Stro- 
phanthus  seeds;  in  the  finger  and  thumb  of  the  right 
hand  were  similar  vestiges.  Whilst  he  had  been  talk- 
ing she  must  have  reached  out  her  hand  and  taken 
Strophanthus  seeds  from  the  trays  in  the  infatuation 
that  they  were  melon  seeds.  He  knew  something  of 
the  danger  and  the  remedy.  Mervyn  rushed  out  to 
get  a  City  doctor;  Mr.  Wilfer,  with  the  assistance  of 
Slopey,  the  hall  porter,  strove  with  wooden  paper- 
knives  to  force  open  her  teeth  and  administer  an  anti- 
dote or  an  alleviative;  but  the  doctor,  when  he  came, 
bore  away  a  seemingly  dying  woman  to  the  nearest 
hospital. 

However,  enough  of  the  antidote  had  reached  the 
veins  to  stave  off  the  full  action  of  the  poison;  in  addi- 
tion to  which  Susie  was  an  uncommonly  tough  human 
being.  Presently  she  was  sick  from  the  emetics  ad- 
ministered, and  the  anxious  father  was  assured  she 
had  passed  out  of  danger.  A  night  in  the  hospital, 
and  she  might  be  well  enough  to  be  sent,  the  next 
morning,  in  a  cab  to  Chelsea.  Reluctantly  he  gave  the 
address  of  his  quiet,  comfortable  house  near  the 
Chelsea  Bridge.  .  .  .  He  must  take  her  in  there  till 
her  situation  could  be  straightened  out.  .  .  .  He  re- 
turned to  the  office  and  told  this  to  Mervyn,  whom  he 
released  from  attendance.  The  two  sought  a  river 
steamer  and  by  it  regained  their  respective  homes. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MIRIAM    CLEMENTS 

MERVYN  had  not  lived  very  long  at  the  Old 
Curiosity  Shop — of  course,  it  never  knew  or 
owned  to  such  a  title,  it  was  simply  19,  Villiers  Street, 
Strand,  the  last  of  the  houses  on  the  left  hand  side, 
looking  south — before  he  realised  that  on  the  same 
floor  as  himself  there  dwelt  another  lodger,  Miss 
Miriam  Clements.  And  it  also  thrilled  him  to  learn 
from  the  rambling,  somewhat  cryptic  sentences  of  Mrs. 
Fairbairn,  his  landlady,  that  she  was  a  stage  star,  a 
celebrated  actress  of  somewhat  varied  fortunes  and 
vacillating  status.  "  When  good,  there's  no  one  to 
touch  'er,"  Mrs.  Fairbairn  would  say,  "  and  why  she 
shouldn't  be  always  good  it  isn't  for  you  or  me  to  say 
.  .  .  temper,  I  s'pose,  or  private  troubles,  or  'er  diges- 
tion. /  ain't  proof  meself  against  broiled  mackerel." 

"  What  are  her  troubles  about  ?  "  Mervyn  would 
reply  eagerly.  He  had  hardly  been  more  than  a  week 
in  London  without  finding  his  way  to  the  particular 
Strand  theatre  in  which  Miss  Clements  was  acting,  and 
in  the  course  of  another  week  he  had  got  as  far  as 
saying  "  Good  morning  "  and  "  Good  evening  "  when 
they  met  on  the  stairs  or  the  landing.  She  had,  on 
each  occasion,  replied  very  pleasantly  to  his  politeness. 

*  'Usbands  chiefly,  where  all  women's  troubles 
mainly  comes  from.  I've  bin  on  the  London  stage 
meself — Drury  Lane  Pantomimes,  'fore  you  was  born, 
and  ought  to  know.  What  'er  name  reely  is  or  was,  / 

138 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  139 

couldn't  tel!  you.  On  the  stage  it's  '  Clements/ 
'  Miriam  Clements/  and  it  'as  to  be  '  Miss  '  for  the 
sake  of  the  public.  The  public  wouldn't  tolerate  a 
leading  lady  in  sentimental  parts — young  and  good- 
looking  parts,  I  mean — who  was  a  Mrs.  A  Mrs.  on 
the  stage  must  be  either  a  comic  character  or  'eavy 
tragedy.  But  about  Miss  Clements :  she  certainly  was 
married  once,  but  fell  out  with  'er  'usband  some'ow, 
and  seems  to  take  it  to  'eart,  with  all  'er  laughin'  and 
talkin'.  .  .  .  'Owever,  I  don't  s'pose  she'll  do  you  much 
'arm.  She's  bin  'ere  three  years,  an',  although  some 
of  'er  friends  makes  a  lot  of  noise,  on  Sundays  'spesh- 
ally — she  says  it's  arguments  about  the  stage  as  a 
soshal  factor — I  reely  don't  think  there's  any  'arm  in 
'er  or  I'd  say  so,  to  put  you  on  yer  guard." 

So,  by  degrees — for  he  had  an  element  of  caution 
in  him — Mervyn's  greetings,  when  they  met  once  a 
week  or  so,  became  more  elaborate.  The  mere  allusion 
to  the  goodness  of  the  morning  or  evening — we  never 
comment  on  the  badness — was  supplemented  by  refer- 
ence to  the  weather. 

During  August  and  September,  Miss  Clements  was 
away,  or  at  any  rate  was  never  visible.  She  re- 
appeared, however,  one  morning  on  the  landing  in 
mid-October,  a  few  days  after  the  upset  at  the  office 
over  Susie  Venables.  Mervyn  thought  this  time  she 
looked  a  decidedly  handsome  woman ;  the  two  or  three 
months  out  of  London  had  effaced  the  look  of  maturity 
about  her  face ;  her  eyes  were  charming  with  dancing 
lights,  and  there  was  colour  in  her  cheeks  that  seemed 
due  to  healthy,  coursing  blood  and  not  to  rouge. 

"  Good  morning!  "  she  replied.  "  Why,  we  haven't 
met  for — for — ever  so  long.  I've  been  away  in  the 
provinces,  and  you?" 

"  Well,  /'ve  been  pretty  much  in  London.     I'm  not 


140  THE  VENEERINGS 

tired  of  London  yet !  It's  all  so  new  to  me.  But  I've 
also  had  a  delightful  holiday  in  the  country,  so  I've 
nothing  to  grumble  at." 

"  You  look  to  me  a  young  man  not  much  disposed 
to  grumble  at  anything." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !  But  life  seems  very  interesting, 
at  my  age." 

She  smiled  and  nodded  and  went  out. 

A  few  days  later  they  met  again.  He  was  returning 
earlier  than  usual  from  the  office.  The  fine  weather 
had  changed  to  rain.  Mr.  Harmon,  who  brightened 
so  much  of  Mervyn's  life,  was  away  abroad ;  Mr.  Wil- 
fer  was  exceedingly  worried  about  his  returned  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Venables.  It  was  making  him  ill.  Mrs. 
Sampson,  the  younger  daughter,  instead  of  helping  him 
out  of  the  dilemma  had  accentuated  it  by  a  rousing 
quarrel  with  the  returned  widow,  and  an  invitation  to 
her  father  to  invoke  the  police  to  remove  her  from 
his  house.  Mervyn  had  a  secret  longing  to  return  to 
Calais  and  see  his  mother  and  sister,  but  knew  he  could 
not,  having  now  got  into  the  thick  of  his  evening 
classes  at  King's  College. 

Miriam  read  a  little  of  this  dissatisfaction  with  events 
in  his  face.  She  said :  "  Come  into  my  sitting-room 
and  have  some  tea."  He  wavered  and  assented,  but 
stipulated  he  should  first  pass  into  his  own  rooms  and 
make  himself  tidy,  after  work  in  a  City  office. 

Her  sitting-room  was  comparatively  large,  like  his 
own,  but  also  rather  well  furnished ;  and  the  articles  of 
furniture  were  more  congruous,  more  of  one  period. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  belonged  to  her,  or  it  might 
have  been  her  taste  in  flowers,  her  woman's  quality 
of  home-making  that  gave  the  apartment  a  more  per- 
sonal, less  of  a  "  lodging  "  character.  And  the  out- 
look from  the  two  windows  was  amusing,  more  inti- 
mate and  a  little  quieter  than  his;  nothing  of  the 
station  and  the  noisy  trains :  young  trees,  peeps  of  the 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  141 

river  and  the  gaunt  buildings  beyond,  half -formed 
public  gardens,  edges  and  relics  of  noble  houses  or 
suggestions  of  comedy  in  stucco,  proprieties  of  the 
early  Victorian  period. 

"  You  like  my  look-out?  I'm  so  glad.  To  me  it  is 
a  whole  series  of  volumes  of  Dickens  or  Thackeray. 
It  suggests  endless  romances,  queer  stories,  jokes, 
gasps,  tears,  and  laughter.  I've  had  rather  a  rough 
time  for  seven  or  eight  years ;  but  I  always  fight  hard 
to  keep  these  rooms." 

"  I  can  quite  believe  it.  I  like  my  own  very  much, 
in  spite  of  the  noise  from  the  station.  .  .  .  But  then, 
looking  at  the  station,  for  me,  is  rather  a  relief.  I 
always  feel  I've  only  got  to  step  across  there  any 
evening  or  early  morning  and  I  could  take  train  and 
steamer  home — my  father  and  mother  live  near  Calais." 

"  I  see.  Well,  my  mother  is  dead,  long  since,  my 
father  has  married  a  second  time,  and  I'm  pretty  much 
alone  in  the  world.  I  suppose  you  know  who  I  am, 
from  our  landlady?  I  believe  she — in  the  'sixties — 
was  a  fairy  in  Drury  Lane  Pantos.  If  you  don't,  let 
me  introduce  myself.  I'm  Miriam  Clements,  and  I'm 
acting  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  and  have  been  for  three 
years — about  the  time  I've  been  here." 

"  Yes.  I  did  know.  I — I — noticed  you  soon  after 
I  came  here — last  June — and  then  one  night  I  saw  you 
on  the  stage,  though  it  was  more  your  voice  I  recog- 
nised at  first  than  your  face." 

"  I  suppose  I  looked  to  you,  then,  ten  years  younger 
than  I  really  am?  " 

"Oh,  well — no;  but  sometimes  here,  on  the  stairs 
or  the  landing,  you  looked  so  tired." 

"  I  should  think  I  did!  Stage  life  simply  wears  you 
out,  or  at  least  rehearsals  do.  And  yet  I  am  supposed 
to  be  lucky  as  an  actress.  I  am  only  thirty-two,  and 
already  I'm  a  '  leading  lady '  and  earning  about  seven 
hundred  a  year!  However,  I'm  not  going  to  bother 


142  THE  VENEERINGS 

you  with  any  biography.  For  a  very  young  man  you 
look  tired  and  a  little  home-sick.  Here  comes  Mrs. 
Fairbairn  with  the  tea." 

Mrs.  Fairbairn  glanced  at  Mervyn  rather  ironically, 
but  said  nothing.  Miss  Clements  addressed  her  as 
"  Rosalie,"  a  concession  to  her  stage  past,  and  made  a 
few  remarks  about  the  supper  tray  which  was  to  await 
her  return.  Then  she  once  more  devoted  herself  to 
Mervyn.  He  was  made  to  eat  one  of  the  poached 
eggs  on  toast,  and  he  was  given  a  large  cup  of  excellent 
tea ;  and  several  sweet  dainties  brought  from  a  scarcely 
visible  cupboard  opened  from  a  key  borne  on  a  chain 
which  Miss  Clements  wore  about  her  person. 

"  Your  name  seems  a  funny  one  ...  if  I've  heard 
it  rightly,"  said  Miriam,  who  was  eating  her  poached 
egg  with  some  appetite,  "  Veneering  ?  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  pronounce  it  rightly.  But  Jeanne  and  I 
like  to  think  it  is  really  Flemish — Van  Eering.  Father 
says  that's  a  regular  Dutch  name.  And  we  more  or 
less  know  we  descend  from  Dutch  or  Flemish  people 
who  settled  in  Essex  centuries  ago.  .  .  .  And  your 
name,  Clements,  is  it  real?  Or  a  stage  name ?" 

"  Ah,  there  you're  carrying  the  war  into  my  country. 
It  was  tactless  of  me  to  start  the  subject.  '  Miriam 
Clements  '  sounds  all  right,  and  I  almost  think  it's 
mine,  now.  I've  grown  into  it.  But  it  wasn't  my 
name  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  though  it  has  the  same 
initials;  and  so  my  people,  who  are  mainly  connected 
with  the  Church,  can  see  it  advertised  on  the  omnibuses 
and  the  hoardings  and  not  wince.  I  had  to  think  of 
a  name  to  act  under  .  .  .  ten  years  ago  .  .  .  and  I 
was  going  to  call  on  a  dramatic  agent  off  the  Strand 
and  looked  up  at  St.  Clement's  steeple  clock  to  see  the 
time — which  it  never  tells  accurately — and  thought 
'  I'll  call  myself  Miriam  Clements.'  I  now  can't  think 
of  myself  under  any  other  name,  so  there  it  is." 

Mervyn:    "  I   see.      Then  ...  I   hope  you   don't 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  143 

think  me  awfully  rude,  putting  these  questions?  Then 
.  .  .  you're  just  Miss — Miss  Miriam  Clements.  I — 
I — mean — you  aren't  Mrs.  Something-or-other " 

Miriam:  "  No,  that  isn't  my  name.  I'm  just 
Miriam  Clements,  once  and  for  all.  Just  a  woman  of 
thirty-two  who's  had  a  clergyman  for  a  father  and 
rather  a  good  education — for  a  girl — and  who's  after- 
wards had  a  jolly  hard  time  on  the  stage,  working  up 
to  be  a  leading  lady.  .  .  .  Won't  you  have  another 
cup  of  tea?  " 

Mervyn:  "  Thanks.  Well,  if  it  comes  to  names, 
you  know,  /  haven't  been  quite — what  should  I  say — 
consistent?  My  first  name  I  spell  now  M-e-r-v-y-n. 
But  the  name  given  to  me  at  my  christening  was  really 
— I  am  told — '  Melvin.'  A  rotten  name.  Just  because 
it  belonged  to  some  poor  old  buffer  whom  they  induced 
to  be  my  godfather.  Jeanne  and  I  think  it's  mon- 
strous we  shouldn't,  when  we  come  of  age — say  at 
eighteen — give  ourselves  the  Christian  names  we  want. 
She  didn't  ask  to  be  called  Joanna — hideous !  So  she 
changed  her  name  to  Jeanne,  which  is  nearly  the  same. 
But,  in  reality,  she  would  like  to  have  been  called 
'  Melisande  '  or  '  Aglae.'  I  read  somewhere  that  in 
so-called  savage  countries — what  delicious  chocolates 
you've  got !  I  really  oughtn't  to  have  any  more.  .  .  . 
And  I  mustn't  forget  I've  got  to  be  at  King's  College 
by  seven — I  read  in  some  book  that  African  and 
Polynesian  savages  only  use  the  names  their  mothers 
call  them  by  till  they  are  grown  up.  Then  they  take 
a  fresh  name  of  their  own  choosing.  That's  much 
more  sensible.  When  I  come  of  age  I  shall  register 
myself  somewhere  as  Mervyn  Van  Eering  and  drop  out 
the  horrid  '  Alfred  '  my  parents  stuck  in  eighteen  years 
ago,  to  please  some  old  codger  called  Alfred.  .  .  . 
Now  I  must  be  going " 

Miriam:  "  Well,  for  the  matter  of  that,  so  must  I — 
or  at  least  in  ten  minutes  from  now.  So  I  won't  keep 


144  THE  VENEERINGS 

you.  But  it's  jolly  to  have  made  acquaintance.  You're 
a  nice  boy.  One  day  I'll  come  to  tea  with  you." 

Mervyn:  "  Oh,  that  would  be  nice.  But  you  mustn't 
take  me  by  surprise.  I  should  like  to  have  my  sitting- 
room  perfectly  tidy;  it  isn't  nearly  as — as — pleasant  to 
look  at  as  this.  But  what  I — I — most  want  to  do — is 
to  come  one  day  to  the  Globe  Theatre  and  see  you  be- 
hind the  scenes.  I  thought  you  were  all  perfectly 
splendid  in  that  piece,  The  Rosary.  I  do  so  want  to 
see  the  old  man  who  played  the  part  of  the  priest.  He 
was  just  right,  just  like  an  old  priest  I  knew  at 
Marquise " 

Miriam:  "  Oh,  I'll  tell  him — Harry  Sanders,  you 
mean?  He'll  be  pleased.  But  he's  not  a  very  good 
young  man ;  not  quite  the  sort  of  companion  you  ought 
to  have.  However,  we  mustn't  stop  to  talk  about  this 
now.  I've  scarcely  got  five  minutes  to  get  ready,  and 
you'll  be  late  for  your  classes.  Ta-ta!  " 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mervyn  heard  at  the  office 
that  Mr.  Wilfer,  who  had  been  away  staying  with  the 
Harmons  in  Gloucestershire,  was  very  unwell,  and  that 
Mr.  Harmon  was  back  from  wherever  he  had  been  to 
abroad,  and  would  like  to  see  him.  He  went  into  the 
partners'  room.  John  Harmon  was  examining  some 
drug  through  a  magnifying  glass.  "  Ah,  Mervyn ! 
There  you  are.  I  came  back  on  Tuesday  and  went 
straight  home  and  found  my  wife's  father  quite  upset 
and  out  of  sorts.  It  seems  you  were  with  him  the  day 
his  New  Zealand  daughter — Mrs.  Venables — came  to 
the  office,  ate  a  Strophanthus  seed,  and  unfortunately 
recovered.  I  mean,  you  know  all  about  the  occur- 
rence ?  " 

"  I  do,  Mr.  Harmon.  I  am  afraid  it's  upset  Mr. 
Wilfer  very  much,  and  that  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Samp- 
son, couldn't  solve  the  difficulty " 

"  Why,  no ;  she's  accentuated  it.  The  two — Lavvy 
Sampson  and  Susie  Venables — apparently  hate  one 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  145 

another.  Against  Lavvy  there's  never  a  word  to  be 
said.  She  mayn't  be  every  one's  fancy,  and  she's 
lacking  in  ideality.  Her  husband  is  here — you  know 
him,  a  valuable  member  of  our  staff,  though  not  pre- 
cisely an  amusing  person.  But  all  my  sympathies 
would  go  with  Lavvy  and  her  establishment.  I  know 
more  of  Susie  than  is  generally  supposed — as  you 
know — for  I  induced  your  good  mother  to  take  her  in 
hand  and  find  her  a  home  fourteen  or  fifteen  years 
ago.  Before  that  she'd  been  on  the  stage.  Then,  in 
1867, 1  sent  her  out  to  join  her  brother  in  New  Zealand. 
I've  had  a  very  explicit  letter,  since  my  return,  from 
John  Wilfer.  .  .  .  By  the  bye,  he's  forwarded  us  a 
wonderful  box  of  seeds  and  dried  plants.  ...  I  don't 
think  she  would  be  welcomed  back  in  New  Zealand, 
even  if  we  could  induce  her  to  go ;  and  I  shrink  from 
having  anything  to  do  with  her  personally.  .  .  .  Yet 
there  she  is,  occupying  Mr.  Wilfer's  house  and  pledging 
his  credit  for  food,  and  quarrelling  with  his  two  serv- 
ants. .  .  .  Seems  to  me  rather  absurd  to  be  discussing 
this  with  a  boy  of — what  are  you?  Eighteen?  And 
at  the  present  juncture  I'm  shaping  a  Bill  for  Parlia- 
ment about  a  Ministry  of  Agriculture — sure  to  be 
thrown  out — and  thinking  over  some  Tibetan  drug 
plants." 

Mervyn:  "  May  I  go  arid  see  Mrs.  Venables?  After 
all,  I'm  not  quite  a  stranger  to  her.  I  know  well  Mr. 
Wilfer's  house  in  Chelsea.  I  can  explain  my  coming 
because  she  stayed  with  us  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  and 
I  was  practically  in  this  room  when  she  ate  the  Stro- 
phanthus  seeds.  I  have  a  further  idea  or  two  which  I 
should  like  to  put  before  you,  but  first  I  had  better  see 
what  Mrs.  Venables  is  like " 

Harmon:  "  Well,  do  as  you  think  best,  my  boy. 
See  her  by  all  means,  only  don't  absent  yourself  from 
King's  College  business.  Take  an  hour  or  two  off 
your  attendance  here,  and  I  should  say  go  there  in  the 


i46  THE  VENEERINGS 

morning.  You're  much  more  likely  to  find  her  in 
then." 

So  Mervyn  went  one  morning,  at  about  eleven,  to 
Mr.  Wilfer's  house  in  Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea.  Susie 
herself  opened  the  door  out  of  consuming  anxiety  as 
to  what  the  knock  meant. 

"  You  don't  remember  me,  Mrs.  Venables  ? "  he 
said,  "  though  you  once  passed  several  months  in  my 
home  at  Calais." 

"Why — not  one  of  the  Veneer  ings?" 

"  Yes ;  the  eldest  boy,  Mervyn.  Lance  was  only  a 
baby  when  you  were  there,  and  /  can  scarcely  remember 
you.  Only  I  heard  from  your  father  who  you  were, 
the  other  day,  and  that  you  were  living  at  his  house. 
So  I  thought  I'd  like  to  come  and  renew  acquaint- 
ance  " 

"  Well,  rather  a  funny  time  in  the  day  to  pay  a  call. 
Ladies  aren't  supposed  to  receive  visitors  till  the  after- 
noon, and  as  you  see,  I'm  not  properly  dressed  " — as, 
indeed,  she  was  not — looking  fully  her  forty-four  or 
forty-five  years  in  her  untidy  morning  garb,  and  with 
no  cap  on  her  untidy  hair — all  married  ladies  wore 
caps  still  at  the  opening  of  the  'eighties.  "And  they 
must  work  you  pretty  easy  at  your  office  if  you're 
able  to  go  gallivanting  in  the  West  End — Chelsea  must 
be  a  very  west-endy  sort  of  place  from  its  position — 
at  eleven  in  the  morning.  I  suppose  Harmon  or  some 
one  sent  you  round  to  see  what  I  was  doing?  Why 
don't  me  father  come  back,  'stead  of  leaving  me  to 
face  his  trollops  of  servants?  He  half -killed  me  at 
his  office  by  giving  me  poisonous  melon  seeds  to 
chew " 

"  Oh,  come,  Mrs.  Venables,  it  wasn't  like  that,  be- 
cause I  was  there,  taking  down  his  notes.  You  came 
on  him  suddenly  whilst  he  was  examining  Strophan- 
thus  seeds,  and  I'm  sure  it  never  occurred  to  him  or  me 
that  you  would  take  some  up  and  put  them  in  your 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  147 

mouth.  If  he  hadn't  given  you  an  antidote  you  might 
have  died " 

"  Well,  'chever  way  you  put  it.  ...  But,  look  here ! 
What's  up?  I'll  lay  you  didn't  leave  your  office  and 
come  here,  all  the  way  out  to  Chelsea,  just  to  pass 
the  time  o'  day." 

"  No.  I  didn't.  I  came,  as  I  said,  to  see  you  and 
to  talk  about  your  father.  I've  been  working  with  him 
for  some  months,  and  I  have  a  great  regard  for  him. 
He  is  nearly  seventy-three,  Mrs.  Venables,  as  you 
know.  He  has  worked  in  the  City  for  fifty  years  and 
more.  He  had  a  nice,  comfortable,  quiet,  pretty  home. 
Look  how  untidy  you've  made  it.  Look  at  this  room  " 
— they  had  adjourned  to  the  dining-room  from  the  hall 
— "  the  stains  on  the  table  and  on  the  side-board,  the 
dusty  chairs " 

"  Well ;  that's  the  servants'  business.  Lazy  hus- 
sies! But  they're  clearing  out  in  a  day  or  two  un- 
less Dad  returns.  And  if  they  do  and  he  don't,  I  shall 
advertise  for  lodgers  and  get  in  a  '  char,'  an'  be  mis- 
tress here — do  the  cooking  myself;  'cause  I  shan't 
have  any  more  money  soon.  I've  only  got  seventy 
pounds  left,  out  of  what  I  brought  back  from  New 
Zealand " 

"  Well,  then,  look  here.  Couldn't  we  arrange  things 
better?  Mr.  Wilfer,  I'm  sure,  will  stop  away  in  the 
country  altogether,  sooner  than  live  here  with  you. 
You  don't  want  to  stop  in  a  dull  place  like  Chelsea  and 
take  in  lodgers,  at  your  age  and  with  your  talents. 
Why  don't  you  go  back  to  the  stage  as  a  career?  I 
know  a  lady — a  very  nice  lady — that  might  give  us 
advice  in  the  matter  if  you  cared  to  try.  Shall  I  speak 
to  her?  Perhaps  your  father  might  make  some  small 
allowance  for  you  to  live  on  till  you  got  a  place  in  some 
theatre  company.  .  .  .  May  I  try  and  find  you  a  suit- 
able place  to  lodge  at,  somewhere  near  the  Strand,  and 
then  speak  to  this  lady?  She  might  give  you  per- 


148  THE  VENEERINGS 

mission  to  call  on  her  at  the  theatre  and  show  her  the 
sort  of  parts  you  were  good  at?  " 

"  Well,  upon  me  word,  young  jackanapes ;  you're  a 
wonder  at  talking  any  woman  over.  Chelsea's  a  hell 
of  a  dull  hole — no  life  in  it.  Say  where  I  can  meet 
you  in  the  Strand  this  afternoon  and  we'll  go  and  look 
for  rooms  together.  Only  if  my  old  Dad  don't  keep 
me  with  enough  to  live  on — decent,  mind  you — till  I 
get  back  into  the  perfeshion,  I'll  come  back  here." 

Mervyn,  after  consultation  with  Miriam,  found  a 
sitting-room  and  bedroom  for  the  turbulent  personality 
of  Susie  at  a  house  in  Great  Queen  Street,  placing  her 
as  far  off  as  he  could — within  the  theatre  radius — 
from  his  own  lodgings  in  Villiers  Street.  Miriam  had 
advised  this  particular  lodging  as  "  theatrical "  but 
quite  good;  and  although  the  rent  was  £75  a  year,  old 
Mr.  Wilfer,  in  correspondence,  guaranteed  that  pay- 
ment of  rent,  provided  Susie  was  the  tenant.  Mervyn 
was  privately  advised  that  he  would  probably  pay  that 
sum  willingly  for  the  rest  of  his  life  to  be  rid  of  a 
daughter  who  disgusted  him  with  everything  she  said 
and  did.  His  servants  now  agreed  to  stop,  and  devoted 
a  week  before  he  returned  from  Chacely  to  a  thorough 
clean-up  and  repolishing.  Wilfer,  however,  in  becom- 
ing responsible  for  the  rent,  informed  his  daughter  that 
he  would  only  adhere  to  this  arrangement  on  the  under- 
standing that  she  never  came  near  him  any  more;  he 
wished  to  hear  and  know  nothing  more  of  her  till  she 
died. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  informed  Mervyn — 
the  go-between — "  It'd  need  pounds  and  pounds  to 
induce  her  to  make  the  weary  journey  from  the  heart 
of  London  to  that  dreary  hole,  Chelsea." 

She  attacked  the  British  stage  at  a  weak  moment 
when  many  managements,  influenced  by  the  success  of 
the  Bancrofts  at  the  Prince  of  Wales's  and  the  Hay- 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  149 

market,  and  of  Robertson's  comedies,  strove  after 
naturalness  and  real  "  character,"  true  dialects,  and 
genuine  feeling  on  the  boards.  Miriam,  working  to- 
wards similar  ends,  and  influenced  by  her  affection  for 
Mervyn,  and  her  desire  to  win  favour  in  the  eyes  of 
John  Harmon  (whose  power  she  appreciated),  saw 
the  opportunity  of  helping  them  over  this  trouble.  She 
received  Susie  at  her  theatre  dressing-room,  tempered 
her  truculence  by  some  very  plain  speaking,  but  "  sized 
her  up,"  realised  that,  short  of  actual  indecency  and 
impropriety,  if  she  merely  came  on  the  stage  as 
"  Susie,"  she  might  be  a  great  success,  start  a  new 
vein  in  comedy.  A  part  in  the  new  piece  which  was 
to  succeed  the  successful  Rosary  at  the  end  of  January, 
1 88 1,  was  rewritten  and  enlarged  to  suit  Susie's  charac- 
teristics and  bring  out  her  rather  disagreeable  person- 
ality. She  wasn't  shy  or  afraid  of  any  one.  Rough 
as  her  playing  had  been  in  England  and  in  New  Zea- 
land— in  between  her  marriages — it  had  accustomed  her 
to  a  stage,  and  to  the  right  pitching  of  the  voice.  She 
was — as  "  Mrs.  Venables  " — to  become  in  succeeding 
years  a  vogue,  an  institution.  Comedy  after  comedy, 
and  one  or  two  tragedies,  were  adapted  or  written  to 
include  her  truculent  personality.  If  she  was  forty- 
five  when  she  first  appeared  in  Miriam's  company,  she 
must  have  been  sixty-five,  twenty  years  later,  when  she 
scored  a  huge  success  in  The  Obstreperous  Lady  at  the 
Haymarket. 

She  never  saw  her  father  again  after  the  autumn  of 
1880.  He  gradually  made  it  known  to  her  that  so  long 
as  she  never  bothered  him  or  any  other  member  of  the 
family,  she  would  be  paid,  during  his  life-time  and 
after  his  death,  a  hundred  a  year  for  her  house  rent. 
She  referred  to  this  arrangement  rather  jeeringly  when 
he  died  in  1884;  and  she  was  at  that  time  drawing  a 
thousand  a  year  in  salary,  "by  just  being  herself." 

But  in  this  chapter  we  must  not  look  too  far  ahead. 


ISO  THE  VENEERINGS 

It  must  end  by  Miriam  coming  into  contact  with  the 
Harmon  family  at  Chacely  Priory.  Who  Miriam 
really  was  and  what  her  secret  trouble  was  about  may 
be  told  later  on.  Realise  her,  for  the  moment,  as  well 
dressed  as  the  fashions  of  1881  permitted,  chiefly  in 
tones  of  dark  grey  with  just  a  glimpse  of  rose  colour 
here  and  there  peeping  out,  arriving  at  Tewkesbury,  to 
be  driven  across  the  Severn  to  Chacely  in  a  comfort- 
able brougham.  After  some  eleven  years  of  desperate 
struggles,  she  has  risen  to  a  very  good  but  very 
exacting  position  on  the  London  stage.  When  first 
introduced  into  this  story,  she  is  heard  alluding  to  her 
income  as  "  seven  hundred  a  year."  As  a  matter  of 
fact  even  then,  in  prudence,  she  understated  it.  That 
may  have  been  all  she  got  from  Messrs.  Ratti  and 
Josue  down  to  the  autumn  of  1880,  but  from  the  time 
of  her  father's  second  marriage  to  a  wealthy  widow 
he  had  allowed  his  rebellious  daughter  a  hundred  a  year, 
besides  paying  her  school  and  college  expenses;  and 
although  her  choice  of  a  career  and  her  marriage  to 
an  actor-manager  had  theoretically  shocked  him,  he 
realised  it  was  partly  his  own  second  entry  into  matri- 
mony which  had  driven  her  to  those  courses,  and  ac- 
quitted his  conscience  by  making  that  degree  of  pro- 
vision for  her.  In  those  days,  with  a  hundred  a  year, 
you  could  not  starve :  it  was  equivalent  to  three  hun- 
dred a  year  at  the  present  date. 

But  after  the  extraordinarily  successful  run  of  The 
Rosary — which  had  drawn  large  audiences  to  the  Globe 
in  two  London  runs  of  six  months  and  four  months, 
and  secured  tumultuous  audiences  in  the  country  for 
three  summer  and  autumn  months — the  management  of 
Miriam's  theatre  had  raised  her  salary  to  a  hundred 
pounds  a  month,  and  had  definitely  engaged  her  at  that 
pay  for  two  years.  (She  played  the  part  of  the  nun 
in  The  Rosary,  which  was  a  rather  clever  adaptation 
from  the  French.) 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  151 

They  had  ceased  playing  The  Rosary  in  London  on 
January  25,  1881,  and  had  sent  it  off  with  a  subsidiary 
company  for  a  six  months'  tour  round  England  and 
Lowland  Scotland — I  think  theatres  were  permitted  in 
Scotland  by  1881 — and  closed  the  Globe  Theatre  for 
ten  days,  partly  to  rest  the  company,  further  to  clean 
and  redecorate.  Messrs.  Ratti  and  Josue  had  done  so 
well  in  this  particular  enterprise  that  they  allowed  their 
acting  staff  full  pay  for  those  ten  days,  and  full  scope 
for  a  holiday — an  almost  unprecedented  degree,  in 
those  days,  of  managerial  generosity  to  poor,  har- 
assed, overworked  players.  So  Miriam  might  actu- 
ally take  a  tiny  holiday.  She  therefore  accepted  an 
invitation  from  Mrs.  Harmon  to  spend  a  week  of  it 
at  Chacely. 

John  Harmon  quickly  sized  people  up.  He  had 
taken  an  extraordinary  liking  to  Mervyn,  and  therefore 
kept  a  wary  eye  on  the  people  with  whom  he  came  into 
contact.  Consequently,  Miriam  had  soon  come  under 
observation.  He  judged  people  by  their  voices,  accent, 
and  pronunciation;  by  the  look  in  their  eyes  and  all 
round  their  eyes,  the  character  of  their  fingers  and 
nails.  He  appraised  them  by  the  way  they  did  their 
hair,  the  shoes  or  boots  they  wore.  He  knew  that  with 
certain  types  of  eyelid,  lower  lip  or  texture  of  skin, 
they  could  not  be  good  company  for  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, poor  souls,  though  other  spheres  might  usually 
be  found  for  their  trained  activities.  He  knew  so 
much,  for — and  ahead  of — his  time,  that  he  realised 
the  scornful  pitilessness  of  Nature  or  Providence  or 
whatever  it  is  or  was  that  created  dinosaurs,  hippo- 
potami, and  Neanderthal  Man ;  and  he  was  very  rarely 
wrong  in  his  summing-up  of  modern  human  beings. 

Therefore,  having  become  much  interested  in  Mer- 
vyn, and  in  any  one  who  liked  Mervyn,  and  tremulously 
hopeful  that  his  wife's  terrible  sister  Susan,  whom  not 
thirteen  thousand  miles  in  sailing  vessels  could  keep 


152  THE  VENEERINGS 

away,  had  at  last  been  found  a  staying  vocation  by 
Mervyn's  actress  friend,  he  asked  Bella  to  invite 
Miriam  down  to  Chacely  for  a  short  rest  before  she 
appeared  in  the  first  night  of  the  new  play,  The 
Vintage. 

So  on  January  26,  1881,  Miriam,  looking  frightfully 
tired  and  fully  her  age  of  thirty-two,  but  as  becomingly 
and  tastefully  dressed  and  furred  as  the  fatuities  of 
1 88 1  fashions  permitted — fortunately  it  was  before 
women  had  fully  assumed  the  giraffe  figures  of  1887 — 
arrived  at  Chacely  to  spend  a  week's  holiday. 

The  two  boys,  Reggie  and  John,  to  their  raging 
disappointment,  had  been  obliged  to  return  to  their 
respective  schools  of  Eton  and  Harrow.  Their  father 
had  assured  them  that  the  mischance  of  the  arrival  in 
their  home  of  a  distinguished  actress,  just  after  their 
departure,  was  no  planned  design  on  his  part,  but 
simply  due  to  the  facts  that  she  could  not  arrive  any 
earlier,  and  that  they  must  not  defer  their  resumption 
of  school  attendance;  no  doubt  they  would  meet  her 
later  in  London,  or  she  would  come  when  they  were 
at  home  on  other  holidays.  So  Miriam  arrived  in 
intensely  wintry  weather  to  find  a  comparatively  quiet 
house. 

But  life  there — she  concluded  on  the  second  day  of 
her  stay — was  absolute  bliss  compared  to  an  actress's 
working-day  and  night  in  London.  She,  who  had 
known  so  little  rest  amid  security,  took  seven  days  of 
a  complete  holiday,  touched  to  melting  by  the  tender 
faith  of  her  reception.  She  arrived  at  the  beautiful 
old  house ;  was  warmly  greeted ;  was  quickly  placed  in 
a  quiet  and  charmingly  furnished  bedroom  which  would 
have  been  dim  with  the  early  winter  dusk  but  for  the 
brilliant  leaping  fire  in  its  recessed  grate.  For  1881, 
the  arrangements  for  washing  and  dressing  were  intel- 
ligent, and  would  have  seemed  modern  to  us,  though 
they  already  existed  in  the  advanced  French  houses  of 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  153 

that  period  and  were  probably  enjoyed  by  Sophie  de 
Lamelle  in  her  Pyrenees  retreat.  Miriam  was  tacitly 
allowed  an  hour  in  which  to  rest,  to  change — if  she 
wanted  a  change  of  clothing — and  to  wash  off  the  dust 
of  a  railway  journey.  The  effect  and  the  efficiency  of 
the  fire-flames — logs  from  the  Forest  of  Dean — were 
such  that  she  needed  not  to  light  a  candle.  She 
lightened  and  loosened  her  costume — perhaps  even  by 
some  fore-knowledge  of  what  was  shortly  coming  to 
pass,  she  made  it  into  a  tea-gown.  At  any  rate  she 
effaced  some  of  her  tiredness,  regained  a  sparkle  in 
the  eyes,  did  her  hair  very  nicely,  and  contemporane- 
ously with  the  sounding  of  a  gong  of  mellow  tone 
there  was  a  gentle  tapping  at  her  door. 

Outside  it  stood  little  Helen,  twelve  or  thereabouts, 
who,  having  tossed  up  with  her  two  sisters  for  the 
privilege  of  being  first  entrant  into  Miss  Clements's 
intimacy,  had  won  and  tripped  upstairs  to  fetch  her 
down  on  the  pretext  of  showing  the  way. 

Miriam  kissed  her — irresistibly — though  she  was 
much  too  sensible  a  woman  to  be  lavish  in  caresses; 
but  somehow  in  this  delightful  house  she  felt  she  could 
give  way  to  her  emotions,  or  to  her  tiredness,  without 
being  pilloried  or  ridiculed.  Helen  returned  the  kiss, 
and  they  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  hand-in- 
hand. 

This  family  reception  room  was  still  called  by  the 
early  nineteenth-century  name  shortened  from  "with- 
drawing room,"  because  into  it  the  family  really  with- 
drew, when  needful,  from  a  too  open  contact  with  the 
outside  world.  Otherwise,  much  of  its  transactions 
took  place  in  the  hall.  But  in  the  hall  it  was  difficult 
to  contend  that  you  were  not  at  home  if  any  fatiguing 
person  called;  and  such  a  calling  might,  on  that  day, 
have  tired  the  actress,  after  a  journey  down  from  Lon- 
don and  the  drive  out  from  Tewkesbury.  The  draw- 
ing-room seemed  to  be  three  sitting-rooms  thrown  into 


154  THE  VENEERINGS 

one,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  it  was  such.  You 
could  concentrate  your  small  society  into  one  of  its 
sections  and  leave  the  others  in  rich  fire-lit  gloom. 
Here,  half-revealed  by  lamp-light,  Miriam  found  her 
hostess  and  the  other  girls,  the  governess,  Miss 
Mitcham,  pouring  out  the  tea,  and  Aunt  Izzy  reading 
a  yellow-backed  novel  of  Ouida's  writing.  Coal  and 
wood  were  then  so  cheap  and  came  from  so  near  at 
hand,  in  the  Forest  of  Dean,  that  the  house  could  be 
kept  thoroughly  warm.  There  were  three  bonny  fires 
burning — glowing  is  a  pleasanter  and  more  apposite 
word — in  each  of  the  three  grates.  But  for  snugness 
lamps  were  only  lit  in  the  section  where  the  tea  was 
set  forth.  Bella  had  asked  the  governess  to  manage 
the  dispensing  of  the  tea  that  afternoon  so  that  she 
might  devote  herself  more  especially  to  her  tired  guest. 
Her  husband  came  in  just  as  tea  had  started,  but  left 
Miriam  to  talk  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  whilst  he 
alternately  teased  Aunt  Izzy,  as  she  liked  to  be  teased, 
and  plied  her  with  sandwiches  and  cakes. 

"  She  is  really  my  youngest  aunt,"  explained  Bella, 
under  cover  of  the  conversational  noise  and  laughter. 
"  My  mother's  youngest  sister.  .  .  .  We  have  her  here 
to  stay  constantly,  to  make  up  for  very  seldom  inviting 
her  elder  sister  whom  we  secretly  dislike.  .  .  .  Aunt 
Izzy  is  quite  harmless,  and  even  rather  kindly.  Were 
you  ever  troubled  by  aunts?" 

"  Never.  My  father,  who  is  a  clergyman  in  Ken- 
sington, is  really  of  Irish  origin,  and  left  most  of  his 
relations  behind  there  when  he  came  tQ  England;  and 
in  Ireland  they  have  remained.  My  mother  was  Eng- 
lish— Hertfordshire — but  she  died  when  I  was  sixteen, 
and  a  year  or  two  later  my  father  married  again — a 
horrid  woman — three  thousand  a  year — he  wants  to 
be  made  a  bishop.  Since  then  I  have  seen  very  little 
of  him.  Not  that  he  dislikes  the  stage — he  rather 
patronises  it — Lyceum  performances  and  such-like. 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  155 

But  my  stepmother  dislikes  me,  and  the  feeling  is  amply 
returned  on  my  part— 

"  I  see.  Now  you  must  have  another  cup.  Do  you 
like  this  China  tea?  " 

"  Rather.  It  is  new  to  my  palate.  We  get  nothing 
but  Indian  in  London.  ...  I'm  almost  shamelessly 
hungry " 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  be  so.  We  find  most  people 
are  at  this  hour,  so  our  teas  are  very  ample.  We  dine 
at  half-past  seven — if  that  suits  you?  " 

"  Perfectly.  It  will  be  a  pleasant  change  after  six 
or  half-past,  which  is  my  usual  hour — or  rather  I  eat 
a  lightish  meal  then  and  have  a  sort  of  supper  after 
my  acting  is  over;  though  no  doctor  considers  that  is 
good  for  one.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  you  don't  mind  large 
appetites  down  here.  I'm  very  seldom  hungry,  really 
hungry  in  London.  But  ever  since  I  got  out  at 
Tewkesbury  I  have  thought  of  little  but  things  to  eat, 
and  meals  I  could  enjoy." 

The  next  morning,  the  maid  who  brought  the  little 
tray  with  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  also  conveyed  a 
wish  from  Mrs.  Harmon  that  Miss  Clements  would  not 
get  up  to  breakfast  at  nine-thirty,  but  take  her  break- 
fast in  bed.  Miriam  yielded  to  the  suggestion  because 
the  excessive  snowfall  during  the  night  was  given — 
by  the  maid — as  one  of  the  reasons.  But  on  the 
following  day  Miriam's  constitution  declared  against 
the  "  actress's "  predilections.  She  was  down  and 
out  in  the  crisp  air,  and  in  the  level  rays  of  the  sun 
shining  from  across  the  distant  Severn.  She  had  put 
on  sensible  boots,  and  such  kind  of  spat  or  gaiters  as 
the  undeveloped  ideas  of  1881  permitted.  The  air 
was  a  tonic,  the  temperature  just  a  degree  below  freez- 
ing-point. The  snowfall  of  the  last  three  days  had 
ceased.  Under  a  pale  blue  sky  the  world  around  was 
dazzlingly  white,  though  the  white  seemed  divided 


i$6  THE  VENEERINGS 

between  pale  golden  white  where  the  sun's  rays  fell, 
and  bluish  white  in  the  spaces  shielded  from  the  sun- 
light. Only  the  innermost  parts  of  the  tree  masses 
seemed  black  green,  where  the  snow  could  not  pene- 
trate and  lodge;  and  the  perpendicular  walls  of  the 
Priory  were  a  warm-tinted  grey  with  deep  snow  can- 
opies and  crusts  on  every  level  or  sloping  surface. 

Yesterday  they  had  almost  been  confined  to  the  house 
by  the  snowfall  which  was  exceptional  and  to  become 
historic.  But  on  this  morning  of  January  28  the  snow 
had  been  cut  and  swept  along  the  main  roads  from  the 
Priory  to  the  greenhouses.  In  a  row  of  these,  half  an 
hour  before  the  downstairs'  breakfast,  Miriam  en- 
countered the  governess  with  scissors  and  a  basket, 
cutting  flowers  and  foliage  for  the  dining-table  arid  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Mr.  Harmon,  after  some  training,  allows  me  to 
do  this.  He's  confident  that  I  shan't  do  any  harm, 
shan't  cut  off  something  he  wants  for  experiment  or 
for  seed.  I've  been  here  nearly  two  years  now,  and 
have  quite  got  to  understand.  I  was  even — if  it 
doesn't  sound  too  repellant — something  of  a  botanist, 
before  they  engaged  me.  My  father  works  at  Kew. 
The  daughters  here  are  dear  girls,  as  you  must  have 
seen,  and  women  being  still  free  as  to  their  education 
are  able  to  learn  something  of  botany ;  whereas  boys — 
well,  they  can  only  do  so  if  they  are  quite  poor,  without 
social  ambition.  .  .  .  Would  you  like  to  help?  My 
basket  was  an  unambitious  thing  to  bring.  .  .  .  Won't 
hold  half  the  things  I've  cut.  ...  I  can  roll  up  the 
other  sprays  in  this  newspaper  if  you  could  carry  the 
basket.  We'll  put  everything  in  v/ater  in  a  large  basin 
when  we  get  indoors.  Then  nothing  will  fade  while 
we're  having  breakfast.  I'm  awfully  hungry." 

"  So  am  I." 

The  next  day  the  snow  began  to  melt,  and  ran  in 
rivers  of  mud  and  water  down  towards  the  little  stream, 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  157 

and  thence  to  the  swollen  Severn.  In  two  days  more 
it  had  turned  to  churned  mud  on  the  roads,  and  was  no 
more  visible  on  the  evergreens,  which  were  black-green 
masses  against  stormy  skies.  Now,  at  last,  they  could 
drive  out  and  see  famous  views  or  visit  bustling  towns, 
packed  with  history.  The  herb  gardens  were  once 
more  visible,  though  very  dreary,  any  inspection  of 
them,  save  in  goloshes  and  looped-up  petticoats,  being 
inadvisable;  moreover,  the  greenhouses  were  much 
more  interesting  now  that  the  snow  was  off  their  roofs. 

"Never  mind  our  outsides,"  said  John  Harmon; 
"  you  can  come  and  see  that  in  the  summer.  You're 
down  here  just  now  to  eat  and  sleep  and  rest  and  listen 
to  my  stories,  and  play  badminton  in  the  gallery — only 
mind  the  pictures — and  the  piano  after  dinner.  And 
I've  got  a  well-furnished  library,  and  you're  fond  of 
reading." 

He  and  she  sat  in  it  one  afternoon  after  lunch,  look- 
ing and  laughing  at  old  Punches.  Seeing  they  were 
alone  for  the  moment,  Miriam  said :  "  I'm  going  to- 
morrow, as  you  know.  Your  sweet  wife  has  asked  me 
to  stay  till  Monday,  but  I  must  have  three  clear  days 

in  London  before  the  new  piece  begins.  I — I " 

her  voice  cracked  a  little  and  roughened,  tears  were  not 
far  off,  but  must  be  kept  back,  "  shall  I  tell  you  a  little 
more  about  myself  before  I  go?  " 

"  My  dear  lady,  so  far  as  Bella  and  I  are  concerned, 
we  don't  want — I  mean  we  don't  need — to  know  any 
more  about  you  to  decide  that  you  make  a  very  jolly 
addition  to  our  home  guests  .  .  .  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing more  to  be  said,  I  have  also  felt  you  have  been 
a  real  friend  to  a  young  fellow — Mervyn — in  whom  I 
have  become  greatly  interested.  I  was  rather  staggered 
at  first  when  I  found  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  in 
Villiers  Street;  but  when  I  realised  that  you  shared 
the  house  with  him — I  mean  when  I  came  to  know 
you " 


158  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Thank  you.  Yet,  somehow,  though  I  hate  to  talk 
to  most  people  about  myself — even  the  people  who  are 
playing  with  me  at  the  theatre  know  very  little  about 
me — I  want  to  tell  you  and  your  wife  who  I  am.  .  .  . 
You  have  been  so  kind,  you  have,  in  a  sense,  called  me 
back  to  the  life  of  decent  people.  .  .  .  Well,  my  father 
was — is — the  Rev.  Cyrus  Wellings,  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's, Kensington." 

"That  man?  Really!  Supposed  to  be  awfully 
eloquent  and  original.  Doesn't  mind  Darwin.  Some 
talk  of  his  getting  a  bishopric.  Reconciliation  of 
Religion  and  Science " 

"  I  dare  say.  It  sounds  horrid  to  say  so,  but  /  think 
he's  a  humbug.  I  never  quite  forgave  him  for  the  way 
he  treated  my  mother.  She  was  a  saint,  and  a  perfect 
darling  at  one  and  the  same  time.  And  his  second 
marriage  has  made  him  much  worse.  My  mother  was 
English — I  wish  I  wasn't  half  Irish " 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that.  It  makes  you  just  the  splendid 
actress  you  are " 

"  Well !  we'll  leave  it  at  that.  But  what  I  wanted  to 
say  to  you — and  to  your  wife — was  that  my  name  was 
once — eleven  years  ago — Mary  Wellings — and  that  I 
changed  it  then,  just  after  I  got  on  to  the  stage — into 
Mary  Cochrane,  because  I  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Victor  Cochrane — you  may  have  heard  his  name? — 
the  manager  of  a  London  theatre.  He  was  awfully 
kind  to  me  at  my  start.  We  were  married — at  a 
registry  office — and  for  more  than  a  year  I  was  very 
happy.  Then  a  baby  was  coming,  so  I  gave  up  acting 
for  some  months.  And  then  Victor  ran  away — went 
back  to  the  United  States — he  was  really  a  Canadian, 
and  he  had  a  mad  wife  in  Canada,  in  some  asylum. 
P'raps  she  wasn't  mad — got  well  again — or  p'raps 
some  one  wanted  to  injure  him.  But  in  fear  of  being 
had  up  for  bigamy  he  bolted  to  the  United  States.  .  .  . 
Several  times  he  wrote  to  me — I  think  his  wife  is  really 


MIRIAM  CLEMENTS  159 

dead  now — but  I  never  answered  his  letters,  because 
my  baby  had  died,  and  somehow  I  loathed  his  memory. 
.  .  .  Now  I  expect  after  my  telling  you  this,  which 
scarcely  any  other  person  about  me  knows,  you'll  never 
ask  me  here  again,  or  your  wife  would  object  to  your 
doing  so.  ...  Whether  my  father  knows  or  not,  I 
couldn't  say.  He  allows  me — has  allowed  me,  since 
he  married  this  woman  with  three  thousand  a  year — 
a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  yearly,  in  return  for 
which  I  sedulously  avoid  going  near  him — ignore  him 
— so  as  not  to  stop  his  being  made  a  bishop.  Now  I've 
told  you  everything.  Except  for  the  horror  about 
Victor — the  very  name  should  have  been  a  warning  to 
me — I'm  perfectly  respectable,  far  too  old  to  fall  in 
love  with  Mervyn.  Indeed,  I  notice  that  although  the 
Press  acclaims  me  as  a  great  actress,  whether  I  am  or 
not — no  one  ever  makes  love  to  me — for  which  I  ought 
to  be  very  thankful." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Clements,  I  am  sincerely  sorry 
for  the  trouble  in  your  life,  but  it  does  not  make  the 
slightest  difference  to  the  opinion  I  have  formed  of 
you,  and  have  already  confided  to  Bella.  I  feel  you 
have  done  altogether  the  right  thing  in  telling  us  the 
main  facts  of  your  life.  I  shall  never  mention  them 
to  any  one  but  my  wife.  I  hope  you  will  look  upon 
me  as  your  friend,  and  come  to  us  whenever  you  can 
get  a  holiday.  And  I  am  quite  sure  the  best  part  of 
your  life  lies  before  you.  Now  let's  rouse  up  the  girls 
and  go  on  some  tour  of  inspection  before  it's  dark." 


CHAPTER  IX 

MERVYN   IN   THE   GAVE  D'ASPE 

IN  1871  Mr.  Podsnap  died.  He  had  never  been  in 
good  health  since  his  attack  of  the  sun,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  that  upset  him  at  the  Paris  Exhibition,  arid 
he  had  retired  from  business  altogether  two  years  be- 
fore, and  become  a  rather  fretful  invalid. 

Georgiana  had  continued  unwillingly  to  live  with  her 
parents  at  a  house  in  a  shady  corner  just  off  Portman 
Square  (a  hanger-on  of  the  square,  after  it  was  num- 
bered 29#)  ;  but  with  the  relative  independence  she  had 
enjoyed  since  her  one-and-twentieth  birthday  based  on 
her  inheritance  of  a  thousand  pounds  a  year,  she  in- 
sisted on  paying  at  least  two  visits  to  France,  in  spring 
and  autumn,  to  stay  with  Sophie  de  Lamelle.  After 
her  father's  death,  Sophie  constrained  her  to  remain 
with  her  mother;  but  when  the  latter  also  died  (in 
I^75)  of  some  intestinal  trouble  not  then  diagnosed, 
Georgy  sold  the  family  mansion  and  furniture,  pen- 
sioned off  or  dismissed  the  servants,  all  except  her 
own  experienced  maid,  who  accompanied  her  on  these 
Continental  trips,  and  joined  her  beloved  Mme.  de 
Lamelle  in  the  Pyrenees. 

This  was  in  1876.  Sophie  had  continued  after  the 
Paris  Exhibition  to  serve  the  French  Ministry  of 
Police,  with  occasional  visits  (partly  on  police  busi- 
ness) to  Alfred  at  Monaco  or  Condamine;  but  in  1870 
— before  the  Franco-Prussian  War — she  accepted  serv- 
ice under  John  Harmon  in  connection  with  his  Pyre- 
nees nursery  for  the  cultivation  of  drug  plants  and  trees 

160 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE        161 

requiring  that  particular  climate.  Her  headquarters 
were  in  the  pleasant  town  of  Oloron,  though  the  actual 
nurseries  were  six  or  seven  miles  away,  on  the  lowest 
slopes  of  the  Pyrenees.  She  had  by  this  time,  besides 
her  original  annuity  of  £115,  the  interest  yearly  on  a 
safely  invested  five  to  six  thousand  pounds  (say,  £220), 
and  a  salary  from  Messrs.  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co. 
of  £150  a  year;  a  total  income  of  about  £485.  But 
Georgy,  when  she  joined  her  at  Pau  in  1876,  was  a 
rich  woman,  with  an  annual  revenue  not  far  short  of 
£3,500.  She  threatened  to  bestow  this  wealth  on  some 
Institute  for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  or  an  Orthopaedic 
Hospital  if  Sophie  would  not  share  it  with  her.  Sophie 
laughed  and  agreed.  She  wrote  to  Harmon,  saying 
the  Pyrenean  gardens  were  not  paying  a  profit,  and 
until  they  did  she  would  take  no  further  salary.  The 
Scottish  superintendent  was  worth  his  pay,  and  as  an 
acquitment  of  conscience  she  would  make  an  occasional 
visit  to  the  Vallee  d'Aspe  for  no  remuneration.  But 
though  she  would  continue  to  live  near  his  plantations 
— she  and  her  friend  were  taking  a  villa  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Pau — she  must  be  free  to  travel  when  and 
where  fancy  dictated.  Indeed,  she  rather  contemplated 
coming  with  Georgy  to  see  him  in  England  next 
summer. 

Occasionally,  without  Georgy,  she  migrated  to  Con- 
damine  and  looked  up  Alfred.  He  aged  very  much 
during  the  later  'seventies.  If  she,  Sophie,  was  fifty- 
nine  in  1880,  he  must  have  been  about  sixty-two,  and 
in  consequence  sixty-three  in  the  late  spring  of  1881, 
when  a  letter  from  his  valet  announced  that  he  was 
very  ill;  too  ill  to  write.  So  Sophie  travelled  across 
southern  France  and  arrived  at  Monte  Carlo  in  the 
beginning  of  June. 

She  had  not  seen  these  present  rooms  of  her  husband 
in  the  upper  part  of  Monte  Carlo.  They  were  on  the 


162  THE  VENEERINGS 

second  floor  of  a  new,  luxurious  suite  of  tall  houses 
on  the  north  side  of  the  public  gardens,  looking  down 
on  the  Casino,  half  a  mile  to  the  southward.  The 
views  from  the  windows  of  Alfred's  suite  were  sump- 
tuous. Beyond  the  flowering  trees  and  palms  and 
beds  of  brilliant  flowers  were  the  domed  buildings  of 
the  Casino  and  then  the  blue  Mediterranean;  and  on 
this  morning  of  her  arrival  there  was,  above  the  hard 
horizon  line,  a  faint,  blue-grey  silhouette  of  Corsica, 
like  an  island  hanging  above  the  sea,  scarcely  real. 
She  took  off  her  grey,  close-fitting  hat  with  green  rib- 
bons ;  touched  here  and  there  with  ungloved  fingers  her 
abundant  dark-grey  hair,  to  assure  herself  of  tidiness 
after  the  train;  then  sat  down  to  await  the  summons 
to  Alfred's  bedside. 

Her  husband  was  a  ghastly-looking  object,  between 
the  white  sheets,  only  redeemed  from  the  appearance 
of  a  preposterous  caricature  by  a  something  of  impos- 
ing grief  and  suffering  in  the  large,  blood-shot  eyes, 
now  distinctly  betraying  their  Levantine  origin  in  the 
hazel  iris  and  distended  pupil.  His  nose,  naturally 
protuberant,  was  swollen,  and  purple-red  with  the  many 
years  of  too  much  heating  food  and  too  much  wine. 
His  cheeks  were  flaccid  and  also  purplish  red,  though 
partly  masked  with  grey  whiskers.  The  shaven  chin 
was  likewise  flushed.  So  was  the  forehead  under  the 
incongruously  gay  night-cap. 

An  intelligent  doctor,  twenty-five  to  thirty  years 
later  in  the  world's  experience,  would  have  diagnosed 
the  case  as  an  extreme  form  of  blood  pressure.  But 
such  a  definite  conclusion  was  unknown  in  1881. 
"  Monsieur  souffrait  d'un  coup  de  sang "  was  the 
nearest  to  the  truth  that  the  Monte  Carlo  practitioner 
had  got  when  called  in  by  the  alarmed  valet,  four  days 
previously.  His  appearance  now  with  the  purple,  con- 
gested complexion  was  so  terrible  that  recovery  seemed 
impossible.  The  only  feature  in  the  face  which  did  not 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE         163 

inspire  repulsion  was  the  eyes.  Now  that  death  was 
near,  there  was  an  animal  appeal  in  them  to  which  she 
was  not  insensible. 

"  How  did  you  bring  this  on?  "  she  asked,  more  as 
a  formality  than  with  any  hope  of  true  information. 
His  reply  was  little  comprehensible,  a  disordered  mass 
of  words  in  a  low  tone  of  voice;  sometimes,  even, 
phrases,  long  sentences  of  French,  as  though  he  did  not 
always  distinguish  her  personality.  Yet  his  babble 
ended  with  the  word  often  repeated:  "Forgive!"  or 
"  Forgive  and  forget." 

"  Forgive,  my  poor  creature  ?  What  is  there  to 
forgive?  "  replied  Sophie,  the  mask  of  cold  indifference 
falling  from  her.  "  We  have  done  the  best  we  could 
for  ourselves  in  a  hard  world.  I  don't  see  we  have 
been  more  blameworthy  than  the  generality  of  people. 
At  any  rate,  we  have  surmounted  our  difficulties  and 
become  moderately  successful  and  respectable.  For- 
give? There's  nothing  for  me  to  forgive  you.  The 
people  I  cannot  forgive — if  it  matters  two  straws  to 
say  so — are  those  who  wasted  the  best  twenty  years  of 
my  life — at  Harrogate " 

She  was  going  to  have  added :  "  And  now  what  is 
to  be  done  for  you?"  in  the  fatuous  optimism  of  a 
healthy  person;  but  the  fatal  look  in  his  face  checked 
her.  Doctor  and  valet  came  in  at  that  moment.  The 
doctor  bowed  and  began  an  examination  of  his  patient, 
while  the  valet  assisted  to  move  and  replace  the  stricken 
man. 

Not  to  embarrass  them  Sophie  passed  back  into  the 
opulent,  garish  sitting-room,  where  the  blinds  had  been 
pulled  up  for  some  process  of  the  doctor's.  She  pulled 
them  down  to  shut  out  the  sunshine  and  the  taunting 
view  of  gaiety  and  liveliness  outside.  .  .  . 

Alfred  de  Lamelle  died  that  night,  or  rather  at  an 
early  hour  in  its  morning.  The  valet  was  a  Corsican, 


164  THE  VENEERINGS 

like  an  unfrocked  priest,  but  a  decent  enough  fellow, 
who  had  known  Sophie  several  years.  Down  below 
or  up  above  in  the  servants'  quarters  he  described  his 
master  as  "  un  pauvre  bougre,  fichu  par  les  liqueurs," 
but  his  manner  with  Mme.  de  Lamelle — who  always 
carried  about  her  a  vague  impression  of  being  in  some 
way  connected  with  the  police,  was  correct  and  dis- 
creetly sympathetic.  He  brought  her  her  husband's 
keys,  assisted  her  to  open  this  and  find  that,  and  dis- 
cover such  will  as  Alfred  had  drawn  up  and  executed. 
This  was  of  three  years  previously,  done  after  he  had 
had  a  nasty,  ill-defined  attack  of  something — probably 
blood  pressure.  It  was  in  French — a  stereotyped  form 
sold  at  stationers' — made  no  mention  of  any  relatives, 
left  anything  he  died  possessed  of  to  his  wife,  "  Sophie 
de  Lamelle."  He  himself  had  adopted  that  mode  of 
spelling  his  name  when  she  chose  it  in  1867,  alleging  an 
interrupted  French  ancestry. 

Sophie,  when  it  seemed  that  he  was  dying,  had  sent 
for  a  priest  and  boldly  averred  him  to  be  a  Roman 
Catholic,  so  that  he  might  obtain  burial  in  a  nice  part  of 
the  cemetery.  What  did  it  matter?  She  herself  in  the 
later  'sixties  had  conformed  to  Catholicism,  as  it  made 
her  position  under  the  Police  Ministry  more  satisfac- 
tory, and  it  was  un-English  in  those  days  and  suited 
her  revised  name  and  her  grudge  against  Harrogate 
and  London. 

So  Alfred  de  Lamelle  was  buried  in  a  nice  part  of 
the  Monte  Carlo  cemetery,  his  estate  was  nicely  wound 
up,  his  valet  was  given  the  equivalent  of  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  after  all  dues  and  duties  and  local  fiss-fass- 
fuss  were  attended  to,  Mme.  de  Lamelle  left  Monte 
Carlo  in  a  very  hot  July  and  returned  to  the  Pyrenees 
and  her  attached  Georgy.  She  would  now  be  able  to 
add  about  seven  thousand  pounds  to  her  other  capital 
sum ;  or,  two  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  a  year  to  her 
modest  income  of  three  hundred  and  twenty.  "  Six 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE        165 

hundred  a  year,  my  dear !  "  she  said  to  her  friend. 
"  Now  you'll  find  I  shall  be  becoming  quite  insolent. 
Six  hundred  a  year!  But,  alas,  I'm  now  sixty 
years  old.  My  hair  is  grey,  my  lip  has  to  be  treated  by 
a  Pau  chemist,  at  intervals,  to  eliminate  a  grey  mous- 
tache, my  figure  has  woefully  gone  to  pieces  in  the  last 
few  years.  Still,  my  digestion  remains  fairly  good, 
though  I've  had  to  give  up  the  escargots  in  the  hors 
d'oeuvres.  But  my  teeth  have  been  well  attended  to — 
the  French  dentists  are  far  ahead  of  the  English.  I 
dare  say  with  care  and  prudence  I  may  have  another 
ten  years  before  me  in  which  I  can  travel  with  you 
about  the  nice  parts  of  Europe.  .  .  .  But  we'll  keep 
our  home  quarters  here.  .  .  .  And  here  or  hereabouts 
I  should  like  to  die,  when  death  can't  be  put  off  any 
longer.  Since  I've  come  to  know  this  Pyrenees  coun- 
try, I've  alwavs  been  amazed  and  thankful  it  isn't  more 
run  after." 

"  I  know,"  said  Georgy,  in  general  acquiescence. 
"  But  as  it  really  is  awfully  hot  here  just  now,  don't 
you  think  we  might  go  back  to  Oloron — it's  a  little 
cooler  there — and  then  we  could  picnic  every  now  and 
again  at  the  plantation?  Of  course  you  wouldn't  like 
to  go  visiting  just  now.  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  de- 
cent? Society  is  so  silly,  and  poor  Alfred  has  only  been 
dead  about  six  weeks.  But  when  you  thought  public 
opinion  would  stand  it,  we  might  go  to  England — p'raps 
in  September — and  see  the  Harmons,  and  get  a  few 
things  we  want  from  the  shops  in  London,  and  then 
come  back  here  for  the  autumn  and  winter." 

Georgy,  in  this  year,  must  have  been  about  thirty- 
eight.  She  was  short  in  figure,  but  for  the  last  ten 
years  her  thinness  had  passed,  with  increasing  happi- 
ness, to  a  plumpness  which  needed  to  be  kept  at  bay 
with  diet  and  exercise.  Though  she  had  shuddered 
with  terror  of  park-horses  as  a  young  woman  in  Lon- 
don, and  riding  lessons  in  her  early  twenties  had  added 


166  THE  VENEERINGS 

to  her  dislike  of  London  life,  here,  in  this  easy,  self- 
swayed  existence,  she  had  looked  on  horses  from  quite 
a  different  point  of  view.  When  she  first  came  to  the 
Pyrenees  she  rode  donkeys  or  mules  of  guaranteed 
placidity.  No  one  had  commented,  in  an  understand- 
able tongue,  on  her  appearance  as  she  rode,  which  may 
or  may  not  have  been  grotesque.  A  lady  with  the 
equivalent  of  three  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year  in  francs  could  not  look  ridiculous — in  France. 
If  she  came  near  to  such  a  definition  the  staring  peas- 
ants had  only  to  be  told  that  "  Mademoiselle  etait 
Anglaise."  That  established  at  once  a  new  facet  of 
vision.  The  English  of  these  parts  were  so  eccentric 
from  the  local,  Pyrenean  standpoint  that  there  was  no 
norm  they  did  not  transgress — ordinarily.  But  they 
paid  their  bills,  and  the  English  sovereign  vouched  for 
everything. 

So,  by  degrees,  Georgy  passed  from  a  donkey  to  a 
mule,  and  from  a  mule  to  a  Pyrenean  cob  of  mature 
years  and  sexual  indifference;  and  by  the  summer  of 
1 88 1  had  ceased  to  be  frightened  of  horses  or  to  fret 
about  her  appearance.  Mme.  de  Lamelle,  however,  had 
entered  the  larger,  adventurous  life  too  late  to  become 
more  than  an  uneasy,  brave  woman  on  horse-back. 
She  was  still  a  very  good  walker,  and  often  walked  up 
hill  when  Georgy  rode.  On  expeditions  of  more  than 
a  mile  there  and  a  mile  back  she  essayed  stout  and 
steady  mules;  but  whilst  they  were  staying  at  Oloron 
in  July,  1 88 1,  they  met  at  the  hotel  a  fever-stricken 
Frenchman  recovering  health  from  a  long  West  Afri- 
can sojourn.  He  told  them  of  the  Portuguese-African 
plan  of  "  machillas,"  legless  chairs  or  hammocks,  sus- 
pended from  a  long  stout  pole.  Ancient  modifications, 
indeed,  of  this  mode  of  transport  were  not  unknown  in 
the  Spanish  Pyrenees.  Sophie  obtained  a  picturesque 
form  of  these  pole  chairs  from  the  Spanish  side  and 
found  a  squad  of  powerful  young  Basques,  four  in 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE         167 

number — two  on,  two  off — who  were  quite  willing,  for 
a  couple  of  months,  to  alternate  with  vintage  work  the 
carrying  of  this  chair  about  the  mountains;  and  thus, 
with  a  degree  of  laughter  and  light-heartedness  hitherto 
foreign  to  her  life,  she  explored  much  of  the  Pyrenean 
scenery  and  was  very  frequently  at  the  Harmon- 
Veneering  plantations  and  drug-nurseries. 

These  ranged  from  an  altitude  of  one  thousand  to 
two  thousand  feet  on  both  sides  of  the  Gave  or  Vallee 
d'Aspe.  John  Harmon,  with  the  advice  and  assistance 
of  French  botanists  and  horticulturists,  had  selected 
and  obtained  these  sites  towards  the  close  of  the  'six- 
ties, and  Mme.  de  Lamelle  had  come,  in  the  following 
year,  to  supervise  the  work  of  the  Scottish  gardener 
and  the  Basque  labourers.  The  Scots  gardener  had 
become,  in  course  of  time,  a  botanical  explorer,  and 
had  gone  on  research  expeditions  for  new  drugs  and 
medicinal  herbs  in  Tibet,  Borneo,  Celebes,  and  the 
Moluccas.  Now  there  was  a  Frenchman  in  charge  at 
the  Vallee  d'Aspe,  with  a  young  Scot  in  subordinate 
direction,  being  trained  for  botanical  exploration  in 
other  wild  countries. 

And  in  August,  1881,  while  the  French  curator  was 
away  on  a  holiday,  there  came  Mervyn  Veneering  on  a 
tour  of  inspection,  both  for  his  own  education  and  for 
the  information  of  John  Harmon — kept  just  then  very 
much  at  home  on  account  of  his  drug  business  and  of 
the  affairs  of  Parliament.  He  was  endeavouring, 
rather  hopelessly,  to  interest  both  the  India  and  Colo- 
nial Offices  in  the  enormously  important  question  of 
medical  botany  and  vegetable  drug-research  in  the 
British  Empire.  If  quinine  could  intervene  as  effec- 
tively as  it  was  now  shown  to  do  in  the  treatment  of 
fevers,  what  might  not  be  obtained  in  other  directions, 
especially  from  the  tropics  and  sub-tropics  ?  The  India 
and  Colonial  Offices  were  both  yawning  under  his 
persistent  and  smiling  questions  and  suggestions.  It 


168  THE  VENEERINGS 

was  an  annoying  thing  that  any  one  with  a  scientific 
bent  of  mind  and  honest  wealth  behind  it  should  have 
got  elected  for  the  House  of  Commons ;  otherwise  he 
might  be  ignored  without  fear  of  consequences. 

Mervyn's  arrival  at  Oloron  touched  some  hidden 
spring  in  Sophie  de  Lamelle's  heart,  some  source  of 
affection  that  Georgy  had  only  mildly  stimulated.  She 
had,  of  course,  seen  him  as  a  little  boy  several  times  at 
the  Villa  les  Acacias;  but  childish  good  looks  seldom 
attracted  her  attention  or  provoked  much  interest. 
Now  there  burst  on  her  attention,  with  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction from  his  mother,  whom  he  had  been  to  see 
previously,  a  very  good-looking,  eager  young  man; 
only  nineteen  years  in  age,  it  was  true,  but  matured  in 
looks,  speech,  and  demeanour  as  though  already  out  in 
the  world. 

Hamilton  and  I — (wrote  Mrs.  Veneering) — refrain 
from  intruding  on  your  widowed  solitude  in  the 
Pyrenees,  especially  at  this  very  hot  time  of  the  year. 
It  is  only  that  dear  Mervyn  must  carry  out  Mr.  Har- 
mon's instructions,  and  in  the  course  of  his  education 
"  se  rendre  compte,"  as  the  French  would  say,  of  what 
is  being  done  in  medicine  cultivation  in  the  Vallee 
d'Aspe,  a  district  we  understand  which  you  have  been 
foremost  in  studying  and  recommending.  What 
changes,  indeed,  my  dear  Sophronia,  have  taken  place 
in  our  lives,  since  the  days  of  long  ago !  To  fancy  then 
that  /  should  become  a  successful  poultry  farmer  and 
you  the  supervisor  of  botanical  gardens!  I  know,  of 
course,  that  your  interest  in  Mr.  Harmon's  experiments 
is  now  only  general,  and  that  advancing  age,  bereave- 
ment, and  possibly  impaired  health  may  necessitate 
protracted  absences  from  the  Pyrenees.  I  am  sure 
Mervyn  would  be  considerate  about  intruding  on  your 
time  of  mourning ;  still,  as  we  understand  that  you  and 
Miss  Podsnap  are  sojourning  quite  close  to  the  planta- 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE         169 

tions  at  Oloron,  it  might  happen  that  Mervyn  met  you 
there  and  would  regret  having  in  hand  no  introduction 
from  your  old  friend. 

Hamilton  joins  me  in  hoping  that  time  may,  in  some 
measure,  temper  the  loss  you  have  sustained. 
Your  affectionate  Friend, 

ANASTASIA. 

"  Loss  ?  "  queried  Sophie  in  her  thoughts  as  she  laid 
down  the  note  which  had  come  in  with  her  petit  de- 
jeuner, and  sipped  her  cup  of  unsweetened,  milky, 
frothing  chocolate.  "  Oh !  Alfred!  What  an  absurd 
formalist  the  creature  still  is.  What  well-meaning 
humbug  and  conventionality.  She  must  have  known  it 
was  rubbish  as  she  wrote  it.  And  her  husband,  as  he 
read  it  before  she  stuck  it  down,  must  have  recalled 
our  love  passages  and  smiled.  .  .  .  Dear,  oh  dear! 
.  .  .  Thirty  years,  fifteen  years  ago.  Tout  passe,  tout 
casse,  tout  lasse  .  .  . !  " 

She  scribbled  an  invitation  to  Mervyn  to  come  and 
eat  his  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette  with  them,  and  dressed 
herself  very  nicely  to  meet  him.  Of  course  she  had 
known  all  about  his  migration  to  London  and  his  work 
at  the  Mincing  Lane  office ;  but  only  remembering  him 
as  a  sometimes  dirty  and  often  noisy  little  boy  at  the 
Villa  les  Acacias,  had  hardly  bestowed  on  him  a  vivid 
thought.  John  Harmon  was  eccentrically  good  arid 
kind,  almost  foolishly  so,  except  that  with  three  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  to  back  such  pure-souled  Chris- 
tianity you  can't  seem  foolish.  Hamilton  Veneering 
had  long  ago  gone  to  pieces,  but  Harmon  had  not 
forgotten  the  rather  original  ideas  about  medicine  he 
possessed  in  the  barbarous  'fifties.  Evidently  this  Mer- 
vyn boy  was  to  be  taken  into  the  business  in  London; 
and  in  some  prevision  of  such  an  event  Harmon 
had  retained  the  name  of  Veneering  in  the  firm's 
device. 


170  THE  VENEERINGS 

Mervyn  appeared  at  their  secluded  table  in  the 
verandah,  just  as  they  were  walking  up  to  it.  He  was 
introduced  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  to  Georgiana 
Podsnap,  who  fell  in  love  with  him  promptly,  as  an  aunt 
should  with  a  nephew.  They  sat  down  and  unfolded 
napkins  and  discussed  the  menu ;  but  Sophie  had  real- 
ised in  a  flash  that  she  liked  him,  that  he  moved  her 
cynical  heart  to  affection.  She  knew  or  guessed  that 
he  was  nineteen,  but  he  really  looked  a  little  nearer 
maturity.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  year  in  business  and 
away  from  home  that  had  ripened  his  appearance  and 
taken  from  him  the  rawness  of  adolescence.  He  had 
had  only  a  clouded  lip  the  year  before,  but  now  was 
growing  a  crisp,  dark-brown  moustache,  and  evidently 
plied  the  razor  twice  or  thrice  a  week  on  cheek  and 
chin.  His  hair  was  dark  brown  with  a  glimmering  of 
chestnut  in  its  depths — so  far  as  it  had  depths,  for  he 
wore  it  sprucely  short.  He  had  well-furnished,  straight 
eye-brows,  and  his  eyes  had  a  grey  iris  warming  at  the 
rims  into  hazel ;  there  was  a  good  straight  nose,  a  little 
thick  in  the  middle;  the  chin  was  firm  and  well- 
moulded  ;  the  teeth,  when  he  smiled — and  he  was  gen- 
erally smiling — were  white,  regular,  and  short.  As  to 
stature  Sophie  appraised  it  shrewdly  at  not  far  from 
six  feet.  Altogether  a  well-grown  boy,  with  a  nice 
clear  complexion  and  a  liability  to  blush  under  her 
examination  of  him,  which  augured  an  ingenuous  and 
unspoilt  nature.  She  glanced  at  his  hands  as  he  broke 
up  a  roll,  plied  fork  and  crust  over  trout,  lifted  wine  or 
water  to  his  lips,  or  smoothed  back  the  hair  over  his 
forehead.  They  were  capable  hands,  with  broad 
knuckles,  straight,  spatulate  fingers,  long-middled, 
turn-backed  thumbs. 

"  I  am  enjoying  myself,"  he  very  soon  said.  "Of 
course  it's  awfully  hot — like  the  tropics,  I  should  think. 
...  I  expect  soon  there'll  be  a  thunderstorm.  But 
heat  seems  to  suit  me — somehow;  and  if  the  open 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE        171 

fields  are  dried  up  to  mud  colour  the  sheltered  and 
watered  places  are  ever  so  green  and  luxuriant.  *  And 
all  the  towns  are  built  for  shade,  and  even  the  great 
open  squares  look  dignified  with  their  blazing  heat. 
I'd  never  before  been  farther  south  than  Calais,  so  here 
it's  as  though  I  had  come  to  another  part  of  the  world. 
.  .  .  What  a  row  the  cicadas  make!  I  don't  mean 
here,  cause  we're  in  a  town  and  in  an  hotel.  ...  In 
deed,  the  hush  outside  seems  as  though  everybody  has 
gone  indoors  to  sleep.  But  in  the  night,  coming 
through  from  Paris — you  know  there's  a  moon,  full 
moon,  just  now? — makes  everything  seem  like  day 
when  it's  full  night — those  cicadas  and  grasshopper 
things  made  such  a  row.  It  was  constant,  rather  musi- 
cal, with  only  slightly  varying  chirps.  And  yet  it  made 
me  want  to  go  to  sleep  somehow.  .  .  .  We  were  rather 
full  up.  ...  I  travelled  second  class  for  economy — 
I'm  awfully  economical — comes  of  being  so  French, 
people  say  in  England.  But  I  liked  the  chaps  in  the 
second  class — they  were  awfully  jolly — commercial 
travellers  mostly.  .  .  .  But  told  me  such  a  lot  of  things 
about  France  I  didn't  know  before.  .  .  .  No.  I  didn't 
stop  on  the  way  in  Paris — came  just  right  through 
from  Calais,  same  as  if  I  was  coming  from  England. 
Had  two  hours  after  arriving  at  Paris  to  catch  my 
train  at  the  Gare  d'Orleans.  .  .  .  But  I  saw  all  of 
Paris  I  could  between  the  two  stations.  .  .  .  And  I'm 
here  for  three  weeks!  Isn't  it  spiffing?  Why,  I'll  go 
the  whole  length  of  the  Pyrenees  in  that  time,  and 
p'raps  discover  something  new  in  its  Alpine  flora.  But 
I  mustn't  boast,  because  I've  never  yet  climbed  a  snow 
peak,  and  I  may  fall  into  a  crevasse." 

"  Well,"  said  Sophie,  smiling,  "  we'll  introduce  you 
to  the  nurseries  here,  and  take  you  up  to  about  three 
thousand  feet.  I've  been  eleven  years  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood, but  never  been  up  to  the  snow  yet.  I'm  a 
good  walker — still;  ten  years  ago  I  was  simply  inde- 


i;2  THE  VENEERINGS 

fatigable.  But  I  took  such  an  interest  in  Harmon's 
plantations,  was  so  anxious  they  should  not  fail — in 
case  I  lost  my  salary — I  never  gave  much  heed  to  the 
snows;  and,  of  course,  we  didn't  want  any  snow  at  the 
nurseries.  Most  of  the  things — well,  two-thirds  of 
them,  at  any  rate,  that  we  grow  here  are  exotic,  not 
Pyrenean — plants  from  Tibet,  North- West  India,  the 
Burmese  hills,  North  Africa,  and  Mexico ;  and  snow  or 
frost  would  just  do  for  them.  Have  another  peach? 
Do!  Georgy,  dear,  pass  him  the  sugar." 

"  How  is  your  sister  getting  on,  Mr.  Veneering?  " 
said  Georgy. 

"  Dear  old  Jeanne  ?  Oh,  pretty  well,  I  think.  She's 
a  little  sad  about  losing  me.  You  see,  before  I  came  to 
London  last  year  we  were  so  much  together,  more  like 
twins.  And  although  she's  awfully  practical — perhaps 
because  she  is  so — she  doesn't  feel  towards  my  younger 
brother,  Lance,  as  she  does  towards  me.  She  and  I 
were  born  in  London — I've  been  to  see  the  house — near 
the  Brompton  Road — horrid  part,  I  thought  it — no 
history.  .  .  .  Lance,  or  Lancelot  as  he's  really  called, 
saw  the  light  at  our  villa  in  the  days  when  it  was  three 
miles  from  Calais.  Mother  is  Catholic " 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Sophie,  with  a  twinkle. 

"  Oh,  are  you  ?  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  say  anything 
against  it.  It's  made  mother  happy.  But  Jeanne  and 
I  somehow — well,  we  aren't  either  of  us  very  religious. 
Now  Lance  is  absolutely  wrapped  up  in  religion,  be- 
lieves all  sorts  of  rubbish,  pleasant  and  unpleasant,  and 
wants  to  be  a  priest.  Father's  rather  like  Jeanne  and 
me,  only  more  cynical  p'raps.  But  there's  simply  noth- 
ing Lance  won't  believe  if  the  priests  tell  him  it's  so. 
At  any  rate,  that's  what  he's  going  in  for.  He  pretends 
he's  a  Fleming  and  not  an  Englishman,  and  is  going  to 
take  up  French  citizenship  if  he  can  do  so  without 
undergoing  military  service.  At  any  rate,  he's  going 
now  to  a  theological  college  to  study " 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE         173 

"  Let's  come  over  to  the  other  side,  the  garden  side, 
for  our  coffee,"  interrupted  Sophie. 

"  I  say,  this  is  jolly,"  exclaimed  Mervyn,  as  they  sat 
in  long  cane  chairs  and  looked  down  into  a  deep,  small 
garden  with  fantastic,  curly,  sandy  paths  and  vivid 
petunias  and  China  asters  in  the  beds,  and  a  little 
fountain  playing  in  the  middle.  "  But  you  asked  about 
Jeanne.  I  think  Jeanne  is  going  to  marry  the  son  of 
the  Maire  of  Calais.  It  means,  as  she  says,  deciding  to 
be  a  Frenchwoman,  for  good  and  all ;  and  she  declares 
she's  only  yielded  to  his  insistence  because  I  went  away 
to  live  in  England.  Jeanne  and  father  don't  hit  it  off 
very  well.  She  never  says  very  much,  only  keeps  what 
he  calls  '  bitterly  silent.'  Mother  doesn't  know  which 
to  side  with,  and  p'raps  if  Jeanne  married  now  she 
wouldn't  miss  her  as  badly  as  she'd  have  done  two  or 
three  years  ago,  when  father  still  travelled  about  a  good 
deal.  But  now  that  he  seldom  goes  away  from  home, 
and  does  more  to  keep  up  the  home — well — and,  of 
course,  I'm  out  of  the  way,  that  makes  a  difference. 
.  .  .  They  haven't  got  so  many  to  look  after." 

At  three  o'clock  they  started  off  to  see  the  planta- 
tions— such  a  cavalcade !  And  much  laughter,  though 
it  was  so  hot.  Mervyn  had  got  a  horse  out  of  the  hotel 
stables,  rather  a  gaunt  beast,  very  anxious  to  graze 
whenever  an  opportunity  offered,  and  yet  inclined  to 
level  a  kick  at  Georgy's  sedate  cob.  Mme.  de  Lamelle 
travelled  in  her  compromise  between  a  sedan  chair  and 
a  machilla,  with  her  squad  of  Basques  carrying  the 
pole  on  their  shoulders.  It  was  a  six-mile  journey,  but 
there  was  much  interest  by  the  way — rough  paths 
which  did  not  follow  the  dusty,  public  roads.  The  plan- 
tations were  in  duplicate,  separated  by  the  stream  of 
the  valley,  the  Aspe.  They  were  united  by  a  bridge 
which  led  out  of  the  little  village  of  Lurbe,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Gave.  At  this  time — mid-August — 


174  THE  VENEERINGS 

the  little  stream  was  very  scanty,  but,  in  the  spring, 
with  the  melting  snows,  the  turbid  waters  rose  nearly 
to  the  inception  of  the  arch.  Now  they  were  crystal 
clear  and  sidled  musically  between  the  grey  boulders 
and  the  gravel. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  to  the  north  side,  and  a  very 
stolid  young  Glaswegian  received  them  in  front  of  the 
dwelling-house  and  managerial  office.  "  Mr.  Snaith," 
said  Sophie,  descending  from  her  sedan  chair,  "  this  is 
Mr.  Mervyn  Veneering,  whose  father  gave  such  a  great 
enlargement  to  the  firm  for  which  you  work.  Mr. 
Mervyn  comes  here  partly  on  a  holiday,  partly  to  make 
himself  acquainted  with  these  plantations,  as  he  is  a 
clerk  in  the  Mincing  Lane  house,  who  has  had  the 
further  advantage  of  a  French  education.  I  am  sorry 
Monsieur  Faidherbe  is  away  on  his  holiday,  but  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  able  to  show  him  all  he  wants  to  see." 

"  A've  already  hearrd  all  aboot  him  from  London. 
.  .  .  Bid  you  welcome,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mervyn.  "  I  can  see  already  the 
gardens  are  going  to  be  wonderfully  interesting.  I'm 
here  to  learn,  not  to  criticise." 

Then  he  went  to  help  Georgy,  whose  cob  was  blun- 
dering up  too  close  to  his  own  rancorous  horse;  who, 
having  got  hold  of  some  particularly  juicy  herb  had  no 
desire  to  share  it.  However,  the  Basques,  having  dis- 
posed of  Mme.  de  Lamelle's  "  machilla,"  threw  them- 
selves on  the  two  horses  and  led  them  away  to  the 
stables.  The  party  did  not  stay  long  in  the  plainly  fur- 
nished house,  but  promised  to  return  for  a  cup  of  tea 
before  the  homeward  journey  at  six.  So  there  were 
barely  two  hours  in  which  to  see  the  twin  plantations. 

The  northern  half  of  the  gardens  was  the  more 
interesting  by  reason  of  its  southern  exposure  and  its 
sheltering  forests  of  chestnuts  and  pines  which  shut  off 
the  cold,  northern  winds  and  the  danger  of  frosts. 
Here,  in  the  terraces,  grew  many  a  plant  of  Mexican 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE         175 

and  Chilian,  Australian  and  Calif ornian  habitat,  and  a 
few  things  from  Asia  Minor  and  the  Himalayas,  from 
mountainous  Syria,  and  even  Algeria.  The  heat  of 
July  and  August  had  imparted  a  sereness  to  foliage; 
flowering  was  mostly  over ;  seeding  was  in  some  cases 
evident.  The  romance  that  lay  over  these  terraces  and 
water  channels  was  the  hidden  potency  of  the  remedies, 
or,  in  sufficient  strength,  the  poison  of  these  little 
herbs,  these  shrubs,  trees,  bulbs,  and  creepers;  for 
what  is  medicine  in  the  minute  dose  may  be  deadly 
poison  in  a  greater  mass.  Newly-known,  anciently- 
used,  and  forgotten  medicines  were  to  be  derived  from 
their  barks,  their  leaves,  twigs,  tubers,  roots,  seeds, 
calyces,  honey,  berries,  and  fleshy  fruits,  or  rind  of 
fruits,  or  kernels,  or  the  swaything  of  the  kernels,  or 
the  skins  of  the  seeds.  Some  of  these  plants  furnished 
remedies  known  to  the  Hebrews  of  Bible  actuality,  or 
to  the  Greeks  under  Pericles  or  in  the  times  of  Aris- 
totle and  Alexander;  to  the  Romans  of  the  Golden  or 
the  Silver  Ages ;  to  the  Saracens  of  the  Crusades,  or  to 
the  Paris  doctors  of  the  revival  of  learning.  Others 
were  sent  from  New  Zealand  by  John  Wilfer;  from 
South  Africa  by  John  Harmon's  correspondents;  or 
they  had  first  sojourned  in  the  gardens  of  Chacely 
Priory,  and  Harmon  had  transferred  them  here  to  see 
if  the  stronger  sunshine  of  the  Pyrenees  strengthened 
their  potency  or  made  a  European  cultivation  just 
possible.  Sophie  and  Georgy  were  neither  of  them 
botanists,  but  both  had  acquired  a  quick  sense  of  gar- 
dening. Sophie,  especially,  said  things  of  value  in 
criticising  growth,  emplacement,  shelter,  soil,  moisture, 
or  aridity.  Mervyn's  enthusiasm  for  all  he  saw  was  a 
little  excessive.  The  peeps  at  distant  glimpses  of  snow 
in  the  vast  background  of  the  Pyrenees,  of  pine  forests 
purple  blue  in  the  shade,  chestnut  woods  intensely 
green  in  sunlight,  of  trees  with  strange  fruits  in  the 
foreground,  aloes  with  fantastic  flower-stalks,  creep- 


i  ;6  THE  VENEERINGS 

ers,  cacti,  leguminous  shrubs  still  blooming,  heaths, 
laurels,  colocynths,  and  asclepiads  sent  him  into  indis- 
criminating  raptures.  He  did  not  notice  how  the 
Ipom&a,  purpurea  had  faded,  how  the  arborescent 
Apocynum  had  wilted  in  the  vivid  sunlight,  how  birds 
had  robbed  the  Casimiroa  of  its  precious  seed  pods ;  or 
the  Jaborandi  of  its  juicy  fruit. 

Sophie  insisted  on  his  noting  these  checks  to  success, 
because  she  laid  stress  on  his  remembering  that  the 
gardens  did  not  yet  pay  a  profit  on  their  upkeep.  They 
might  do  so  when  some  of  the  new  remedies  were 
popularised  in  our  enlarging  pharmacopoeia;  but  the 
gardens,  if  they  were  to  supply  a  really  great  industry, 
must  be  extended.  Local  proprietors  were  holding 
tight ;  there  was  a  general  idea  that  John  Harmon  was 
"  richissime,"  and  should  be  bled;  he  was  not  French, 
and  therefore  must  be  made  to  suffer.  The  French 
Government  was  still  unalive  to  his  purposes,  which 
were  international,  not  purely  British.  Here  he  had 
found  an  ideal  climate  for  his  purpose,  and  in  most 
places  the  right  varieties  of  soil;  but  the  gardens  must 
be  extended,  stretch  downwards  to  a  thousand  feet 
above  sea-level,  upwards  to  three  thousand  feet.  "  Or, 
let  us  say,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  metres,"  added 
Sophie.  "  I  have  already  told  Mr.  Harmon  it  irritates 
the  French  authorities  talking  about  '  feet '  and 
'  yards ' ;  they  will  do  far  more  for  you  if  you  grasp 
and  adopt  the  metric  system  and  make  your  reckonings 
in  that.  I  know  we  shall  cling  to  our  absurd  weights 
and  measures  till  ruin  positively  stares  us  in  the  face. 
.  .  .  You  must  try  to  follow  the  metric  system,  Mr. 
Snaith.  .  .  .  Purge  your  mind  of  British  prejudice. 
.  .  .  About  those  Mexican  shrubs,  you  mentioned.  In 
Mexico,  I  am  told,  they  will  only  grow  at  6,000  feet 
above  sea-level.  Here  they  ought  to  be  suited  along 
the  top  of  our  plantations  at  three  thousand  feet,  if  we 
can  purchase  that  degree  of  extension.  Mervyn — if  I 


MERVYN  IN  THE  GAVE  D'ASPE  177 

may  call  you  by  your  Christian  name,  tout  court — 
there  are  some  points  you  should  note  in  what  Mr. 
Snaith  has  been  saying  about  snails  and  caterpillars, 
the  aphis  of  the  vine  disease,  and  wire  worms.  We 
might  get  him  to  jot  down  the  main  points  in  writing ; 
but  it  would  be  as  well  to  discuss  them  thoroughly  with 
Mr.  Snaith  before  you  go  and  before  you  draw  up  any 
report  for  Mr.  Harmon.  And,  better  still,  to  stay  on 
here  till  Monsieur  Faidherbe  returns,  and  hear  what  he 
has  to  say.  He  has  been  in  Mexico  and  Cochin  China, 
but  he  is  quite  affable. 

"  Now,  before  we  leave  this  afternoon,  you  ought  to 
see  the  beds  of  CEnothera  odorata  near  the  house.  Their 
flowers  don't  come  out  properly  till  an  hour  before 
sunset — just  about  the  time  the  sun  goes  behind  the 
mountains.  I  think  to-morrow  you'd  better  come  up 
here  with  your  bag  of  night  things  and  stay  for  a  week 
and  thoroughly  explore  the  gardens — facing  north  and 
facing  south.  Both  Snaith  " — (she  said  with  a  nod 
towards  the  matter-of-fact  Glaswegian) — "  and  Faid- 
herbe are  worth  talking  to,  and  good-natured  about 
answering  questions.  Then  when  your  report  is  drafted 
in  the  rough,  show  it  to  me  before  you  leave  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  I  will  tell  you  where  I  think  it's  silly,  or 
inadequate,  or  too  rapturous.  You  mustn't  pay  too 

much  attention  to  the  scenery 

Georgy,  dear.  You've  torn  your  skirt  behind  at  the 
gathers,  and  quite  innocently  you're  walking  about  a 
perfect  sight,  such  as  no  lady  should  show  herself.  It 
would  be  dangerous  to  ride  back  like  that.  I  shall  just 
have  time  to  mend  it  and  adjust  it  if  you  come  upstairs 
with  me  whilst  our  escort  are  bringing  up  the  horses 
and  getting  the  machilla  ready." 


CHAPTER  X 
CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883 

October  10,  1882. 
DEAREST  JEANNE, — 

1AM  at  Cambridge,  as  the  post-mark  of  the 
envelope  should  inform  you;  but  I  am  only  in  lodg- 
ings, so  far;  and  as  I  do  not  like  them  and  hope  to 
leave  them  daily  for  St.  Peter's  College,  I  do  not  give 
you  the  address.  You  might  send  your  answer  and  get 
"mother  to  address  her  letters  to  the  care  of  the  firm  in 
Mincing  Lane :  they  will  know  where  I  am  to  be  found. 
I  am  going,  at  Christmas  time,  to  give  up  my  rooms  at 
19,  Villiers  Street — bien  a  regret — for  I  have  been 
happy  there,  and  in  the  course  of  two  years  have  quite 
grown  to  like  "  Rosalie,"  as  Miriam  calls  her.  But 
Miriam  herself  is  moving  to  other  and  less  Bohemian 
quarters,  nearer  her  new  theatre,  some  place  which  she 
can  better  make  into  a  "  home."  Meantime,  she  and 
her  company  are  going  on  a  series  of  visits  to  the  lead- 
ing towns  with  their  enormously  successful  piece,  The 
Vintage — you  saw  it  when  you  came  over  in  the  sum- 
mer— and  before  Christmas  they  may  come  to  Cam- 
bridge. Mr.  Harmon  suggests  that  when  I  give  up  19 
and  the  rough-tongued  but  kindly  Rosalie  (who  is 
actually  talking  of  moving  "into  the  country — some- 
where Edgware  way")  I  should  have  a  room  at  his 
house  in  Wigmore  Street,  till  I  have  finished  my  Uni- 
versity stage.  I  shall  be  at  Cambridge — assuming  I 
am  not  plucked  next  week  in  this  "  previous  " — for 
about  three  or  four  years.  And  I  expect  I  shall  go 

178 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  179 

down  to  Chacely  from  time  to  time  to  work  in  the  herb 
gardens  and  the  drug  factory.  When  I  get  into  the 
University  I  must  spend  nine  terms  there — at  least — to 
qualify  for  a  degree.  This  means  a  residence  at  Cam- 
bridge of  about  six  to  seven  months  out  of  each  year ; 
in  addition  to  which  I  might  want  to  put  in  another 
month  or  six  weeks  in  the  long  vacation  for  studies  in 
the  Botanical  Gardens  here,  and  in  the  laboratories. 

Then  I  shall  want — say  twice  a  year — to  run  over  to 
Calais  to  see  you  and  mother,  and  a  fortnight  now  and 
again  for  the  Gave  d'Aspe;  so  it  would  be  waste  of 
money  to  keep  on  my  rooms  in  Villiers  Street,  espe- 
cially now  that  Miriam  is  going  and  Rosalie  is  begin- 
ning to  have  tender  thoughts  of  Edgware — a  most  un- 
interesting place,  I  should  have  thought,  and  far  from 
perfect  country. 

About  my  examination  here.  It  began  last  Monday 
at  the  Guildhall  and  lasted  till  Friday.  It  was  much 
stiffer  than  I  thought,  and  I  am  very  uneasy  as  to  the 
result.  Of  course,  ever  since  I  put  myself  at  King's 
College  I  have  been  aware,  more  or  less,  of  the  sub- 
jects I  should  be  examined  in — The  New  Testament, 
Plato's  and  Xenophon's  books  in  Greek,  or  similar 
writers,  Virgil's  poetry  and  various  kinds  of  Latin 
prose,  Greek  and  Latin  grammar,  that  tiresome  old 
Paley  and  his  very  unsound  and  plausible  "  Evidences," 
euclid,  arithmetic,  and  algebra. 

The  preparation  for  all  this  has  been  rather  distract-* 
ing,  very  much  against  the  grain,  the  trend  of  my  own 
natural  inquiries  being  almost  entirely  in  the  direction 
of  biology,  pre-history,  and  modern  languages.  I  have 
always  had  an  interest  in  Latin — since  I  was  twelve 
and  Monsieur  Mercadet  used  to  talk  to  us  about  Diez's 
"  Grammaire  des  Langues  Romanes,"  and  its  transla- 
tion and  amplification  by  Gaston  Paris.  But  the  Latin 
that  since  then  attracted  me  was  the  possible  Latin 
spoken  in  France  in  the  sixth,  seventh,  eighth  cen- 


180  THE  VENEERINGS 

tunes,  when  it  was  dissolving  into  French  and  other 
Romance  languages.  Latin  of  the  classical  period  I 
thought  odious  from  its  absolutely  crazy  construction 
— requiring  "  parsing,"  I  should  think,  then — when  it 
was  spoken — as  well  as  now.  I  cannot  believe,  some- 
how, that  it  was  ever — this  classical  Latin — more  than 
an  artificial  literary  language.  It  simply  could  not 
have  been  spoken  in  the  home,  anywhere,  when  you 
were  in  a  hurry  to  get  at  the  main  facts  and  couldn't 
wait  till  the  end  of  the  sentence  to  know  whether  the 
dog  was  mine  or  yours  or  black  or  white. 

I  notice,  by  the  bye,  with  pleasure,  that  at  Cambridge 
they  are  beginning  to  adopt  the  right  pronunciation  of 
Latin,  not  the  barbarously  unreal,  Elizabethan  pronun- 
ciation which  is  still  followed  by  the  English  in  Greek, 
partly  as  an  act  of  defiance  of  Popish  customs.  As  to 
Greek  I  have  attempted  to  evade  Plato  in  favour  of 
The  Gospel  according  to  St.  Matthew — in  New  Testa- 
ment Greek.  I  cannot  stand  Plato;  it  is  all  so  beside 
the  mark.  I  mean  we  have  got  so  far  beyond  the  poor 
dear  in  our  researches  and  discoveries,  and  his  "  Soc- 
rates "  is  such  a  figure  of  speech.  But  I  won't  waste 
letter-space  on  these  arguments.  I  take  a  much  greater 
interest  in  Xenophon.  At  any  rate  he  did  something, 
he  made  some  astonishing  journeys  for  those  days, 
though  like  all  the  writers  of  his  time,  and  for  many 
centuries  afterwards,  he  told  you  nothing  of  the  eth- 
nology or  botany  of  the  regions  he  traversed. 

I  expect  I  have  done  pretty  fairly  over  the  euclid 
and  arithmetic ;  but  I  felt  flummoxed  over  the  algebra. 
I  am  always  told  algebra  is  absolutely  essential  to 
astronomers  and  engineers.  At  any  rate  it  seems  to 
afford  them  gratification,  and  checks  criticism  of  their 
theories.  It  ought  also  to  fill  with  rapture  the  puzzle- 
prize  editors  of  magazines.  But  I  never  see  how  it  is 
going  to  help  a  plain  citizen  like  myself,  bent — chiefly 
— on  the  study  of  botany  and  chemistry,  and  biology  in 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  181 

general.  I  left  several  of  the  algebraic  questions  un- 
answered. They  were  the  last  of  the  five  days'  tor- 
tures, and  perhaps  the  examiners  may  assume  that  my 
health  failed. 

Isn't  it  extraordinary  that  at  this  preliminary  exami- 
nation no  attention  should  be  paid  to  the  things  I  really 
know — for  I  am  far  from  a  duffer — the  botany,  chem- 
istry, history,  modern  languages  ? 

Now  that's  enough  about  me.  Next  to  myself — 
which  I  do  really  feel  I  ought  to  say  at  this  moment, 
for  I  shall  be  bitterly  disappointed  if  I  fail,  and  Mr. 
Harmon  thinks  I  have  been  idle'or  stupid — I  want  to 
hear  that  all  is  well  with  you.  Has  Menelek — as  we 
used  to  call  him — proposed,  and  in  that  case  have  you 
accepted  him?  As  soon  as  I  know  I  have  passed  this 
beastly  examination,  and  can  go  straight  ahead  at  Cam- 
bridge with  the  studies  that  really  interest  me,  that  are 
really  important  and  modern,  I  shall  think  most  of  you. 

Your  loving 
MER. 

Villa  les  Acacias, 

October  15,  1882. 
MY  DARLING  BOY, — 

We  were  so  thrilled  with  delight,  mother  and  I, 
yes,  et  Gaston  aussi,  le  Menelek  indomptable,  as  we 
used  to  call  him,  and  even  our  rather — in  these  days — 
sombre  Papa,  to  learn  from  your  telegram  that  you 
had  passed — and  so  creditably.  The  joy  of  knowing  it 
has  quite  disturbed  my  English  and  as  I  am  at  last 
fiancee  a  Gaston,  je  me  trouve  de  plus  en  plus  disposee 
a  ne  me  servir  que  du  f rangais  pour  exprimer  mes  affec- 
tions les  plus  tendres.  Cher  petit !  Comme  je  t'a%me,  de 
plus  en  plus,  d'un  amour  bien  different  de  celui  dont  je 
contemple  Gaston ;  et  je  m'en  amourache — de  lui — avec 
passion.  Mais  avec  toi :  c'est  presque  maternel.  Je  t'ai 
connu  si  petit,  si  bien  moins  que  moi,  quelquefois, 


182  THE  VENEERINGS 

meme,  dans  notre  jeunesse,  si  frele,  si  souffrant.  .  .  . 
No,  I  won't  go  on,  in  this  letter.  But  now  I  am  going 
to  marry  a  Frenchman  I  think,  when  I  am  married,  I 
shall  refuse  any  more  to  talk  or  to  write  English.  I 
shall  say  we  were  Flemish  and  have  become  French. 
There  is  much  in  Papa's  life  I  have  dimly  guessed  and 
cannot  approve  of,  but  I  have  grown  more  tender 
towards  him  of  late;  he  is  so  broken;  and  I  do  feel  at 
one  time,  at  one  remote  time,  he  did  try  so  hard  to  do 
something — for  England — and  was  so  scurvily  treated. 
My  own  darling  brother  now  is  going  to  take  up  the 
tale.  I  believe — and  God  knows  I  hope — you  dear 
boy,  you  are  going  to  be  the  future  glory  of  this  firm. 
You  are  going  to  carry  out  to  the  full  the  good  ideas 
our  poor  father  had  in  his  youth  before  he  became  be- 
sotted with  Stock  Exchange  speculations,  and  gam- 
bling, and  the  Lammles. 

Well,  you  will  be  glad  of  my  news  which  has  almost 
blossomed  at  the  same  time  as  yours.  If  you  are 
twenty,  I  am  twenty-two — and  some  months  more, 
which  is  thought  quite  mature  for  marriage  in  France. 
And  mon  bien  cheri  Gaston  is  twenty-seven.  I  believe 
he  could  not  have  married  without  his  father's  consent 
till  he  was  twenty-five ;  and  although  my  future  father- 
in-law  has  given  his  approval  for  the  marriage  in  due 
form,  et  meme  tres  galamment,  I'm  not  quite  so  sure 
he  would  have  approved  a  few  years  earlier,  when 
Papa's  affairs  did  not  seem  so  settled  and  satisfactory. 
Of  course,  it  has  really  been  our  mother  who  has  built 
us  up  again.  We  should  never  forget  that,  or  be 
tempted — as  I  often  am — to  mock  at  her  Early  Vic- 
torian ways  and  funny  little  hypocrisies.  Something 
instinctively  good  and  prudent  and  English  in  her  com- 
position came  to  the  top  after  the  financial  break-down 
in  1864. 

Papa  is  going  to  give  me  a  thousand  pounds,  and 
Mamma  will  make  over  funds  to  provide  me  with  a 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  183 

steady  hundred  pounds  a  year,  which  is  a  considerable 
sacrifice  for  her  to  make.  But  I  dare  say — une  fois 
mariee — I  shall  be  able  to  make  it  up  to  her,  somehow. 
I  think  Monsieur  le  Maire — as  Gaston's  father  is — was 
rather  disappointed  when  told  of  the  very  modest  con- 
tribution I  was  making  to  Goston's  resources.  But  I 
was  quite  firm — insisted  on  seeing  him  myself — which 
he  also  thought  rather  disturbingly  "  English."  I  told 
him  if  I  could  only  marry  by  unduly  limiting  my 
parents'  means,  I  would  remain  wwmarried  (I  expect  I 
should  have  eloped  soon  afterwards  with  Gaston,  for  I 
am  really  very  much  in  love  with  him).  Once  mar- 
ried I  mean  to  work  so  hard  that  I  shall  soon  atone  for 
having  come  with  a  poor  dowry.  I  think  M.  le  Maire 
feels  that.  Like  most  French  people  he  has  an  exag- 
gerated respect  for  the  English.  He  can't  believe  there 
are  really  English  "  poor "  people — many  of  them 
much  more  miserably  poor  than  the  French,  partly 
because  the  climate  is  worse — and  although  he  had 
guessed  that  Papa  had  had  a  severe  financial  crisis 
years  ago,  he  thought  even  in  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes 
he — having  been  a  member  of  Parliament — must  still 
have  remained  moderately  rich. 

However,  all  that  is  settled  now,  and  I  am  bursting 
with  happiness  (entre  nous  deux,  soit  il  dit).  I  am 
really  intensely  in  love  with  Gaston,  though  I  try  to  be 
cold  and  calm — simply  because  it  is  my  supposed  cold- 
ness and  placid  demeanour  which  so  fascinate  him — 
dear  simple  thing.  For  although  he  has  served  so  much 
in  French  Africa  and  in  the  French  army  generally,  he 
is  simple.  He  has,  however,  a  very  practical  side  and 
intends  to  leave  the  army  and  settle  in  Picardy,  perhaps 
not  far  from  this  Calais  of  ours,  and  develop  some 
potteries  in  which  his  rather  is  interested.  He  has  also 
got  some  rather  'cute  ideas  about  velocipedes,  and 
making  them  much  easier  to  ride. 

I  ought,  perhaps,  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  become  a 


184  THE  VENEERINGS 

Catholic  to  make  things  pleasanter  for  Gaston.  No- 
body asked  me  to — particularly.  But,  here  in  France, 
it  will  make  things  much  more  comfortable,  and 
Catholicism  has  made  mother  ever  so  much  happier. 
I  can  never  forget  what  Pere  Duparquet  has  done  for 
us,  and  it  will  gratify  him.  You  and  I  may  think  what 
we  please,  inwardly,  and  one  form  of  Christianity 
doesn't  very  much  differ  from  another  in  essentials. 
Of  course  that  horrid  boy,  Lance,  will  think  it  is  due  to 
his  influence.  I  cannot  imagine  how  he  came  to  be 
our  brother:  he  is  so  unlike  us.  Was  it  because  we 
were  born  in  England  ?  And  yet  I  believe  Mamma  is 
fonder  of  him  than  she  is  of  us.  He  is  getting  on  for 
eighteen,  and  is  now  definitely  studying  for  the  priest- 
hood. I  have  never  liked  him — nor  does  Gaston — nor 
have  you.  Mais  Maman  en  radote.  I  simply  must 
close  this  now,  but  I  shall  insist  on  your  coming  to  the 
wedding.  We  will  choose  a  date  in  between  your  Uni- 
versity courses,  and  if  you  don't  turn  up,  il  n'y  aura 
pas  de  manage.  Till  then,  my  darling, 

Your  loving  sister, 
JEANNE. 

Gaston  t'envoie  toutes  les  amities  possibles.  II  se 
rappelle  de  toi  quand  tu  etais  encore  a  1'ecole  ici  et  que, 
lui,  il  etait  en  permission  d'Alger.  Quelque^ois,  quand 
il  veut  me  taquiner,  il  me  raconte  qu'il  m'a  choisi 
plutot  pour  mes  freres,  ma  mere,  mon  "  stock,"  que 
pour  des  raisons  personnelles.  Mais  je  reste  calme, 
car  je  suis  convaincue  que  tu  1'aimeras. 

I  have  written  specially  to  Mrs.  Harmon  to  tell  her 
about  Gaston  and  me,  because  they  were  so  awfully 
kind  to  me  last  summer  and  think  such  a  lot  of  you. 
Do  you  know,  I  often,  in  my  mind,  date  the  recovery 
of  Mamma  from  the  time  Mr.  Harmon  used  to  come 
over  to  see  her  at  Calais  and  you  and  I — you  can't 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  185 

remember — used  to  run  in  out  of  the  garden,  hideously 
dirty,  and  stare  at  him ! 

One  day  in  later  November,  not  long  after  Mervyn 
had  got  installed  in  Peterhouse,  he  was  passing  the 
exterior  of  the  theatre  when  he  saw  the  startling  an- 
nouncement :  "  Miss  Clements  and  the  Original  Com- 
pany of  the  Globe  Theatre,  London,  in  The  Vintage, 
December  6  to  December  16.  Seats  can  now  be 
booked." 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  he  had  a  letter  from  Mir- 
iam saying  that,  as  their  tenure  of  The  Globe  would  be 
coming  to  an  end  with  November,  and  as  their  new 
Embankment  Theatre  would  not  be  ready  for  the  new 
piece  till  March,  they  had  decided  to  take  The  Vintage 
round  the  provinces  on  tour.  They  all  felt  sick  of 
London,  though  the  play  still  went  well.  Probably  it 
would  have  quite  a  revival  in  the  country.  The  Em- 
bankment Theatre  would  be  finished  enough  for  re- 
hearsals by  the  end  of  January.  Her  company — on 
full  pay — would  be  rehearsing  all  February  the  succes- 
sor to  The  Vintage,  From  the  ist  to  the  loth  of 
March  every  one  was  to  have  ten  days'  clear  holiday 
on  full  pay;  then  five  days  rehearsing,  and  the  Em- 
bankment Theatre  was  to  open  its  doors  to  the  public 
in  March  15,  1883.  "  I  am  really  starting  this  tour 
with  Cambridge  to  see  at  the  same  time  how  you  are 
getting  on,  and  also  because  I  have  rather  a  sentimental 
liking  for  the  place,  having  had  a  shot  there  at  higher 
things  in  education  for  myself.  But  I  have  not  a  very 
clear  idea  whether  the  ten  days'  stay  will  be  profitable ; 
it  will  commence  after  your  autumn  term  closes,  and 
there  may  be  no  audiences,." 

But  her  apprehensions  were  not  justified  by  events. 
Many  men  were  staying  on  till  over  the  i6th  December 
to  wind  up  uncompleted  studies,  and  also  because  home 


186  THE  VENEERINGS 

festivities  would  not  commence  till  a  day  or  two  before 
Christmas.  The  nastiness  of  winter  weather  had  not 
begun — or  rather  after  a  few  days  of  bitter  cold  in 
November  and  a  week  of  miserable  rain,  the  first  half 
of  that  December  seemed  almost  spring-like  in  its  pale 
sunshine  and  quiet  air. 

Miriam's  ten  days  proved  an  uproarious  success. 
Her  company  naturally  left  behind  it  in  London  its 
numerous  body  of  supers — French  peasants  and  gardes- 
champetres,  francs-tireurs  (the  period  was  the  autumn 
of  1870)  ;  and  proposed  to  recruit  these  supernumer- 
aries from  the  people  on  the  books  of  the  Cambridge 
Theatre.  But  Mervyn,  two  or  three  days  before  the 
first  performances,  suggested  the  enlistment  of  eager 
student  volunteers,  himself  included.  Miriam — a  little 
doubting,  half  amused — assented.  And  every  perform- 
ance went  with  a  rush,  with  a  vividness,  a  reality  (in 
spite  of  atrocious  pronunciation  of  the  few  French 
words  that  were  deemed  essential)  that  quite  outdid 
the  London  rendering.  Matinees  had  to  be  given  to 
satisfy  those  who  had  been  crowded  out  from  night 
attendance.  A  few  people,  even,  ran  down  from  Lon- 
don because  of  a  paragraph  in  the  Times,  to  see  a 
first-class  London  company,  with  University  under- 
graduates doing  the  crowds  and  the  parts  which  had 
but  few  sentences  to  utter. 

The  University  authorities  viewed  this  flutter  of 
gaiety,  novelty,  and  notoriety  a  little  sourly;  and  Mer- 
vyn was  cautioned  by  his  tutor  and  by  the  master  of 
his  College — they  had  intended  to  be  much  severer  in 
tone  till  they  saw  his  pleasant,  eager  face.  But  in 
those  days  the  University  was  still  a  little  prejudiced 
against  the  Theatre  as  a  rival  of  the  Church;  and 
although  the  character  of  Miss  Clements  was  seem- 
ingly above  criticism — she  acknowledged  her  age  to  be 
thirty-four,  which  was  equivalent  then  to  her  calling 
herself  sixty  at  the  present  time — and  it  was  hinted 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  187 

that  her  father  was  a  well-known  clergyman  and  a 
possible  bishop — the  sallies  of  Mrs.  Venables  were  a 
little  indecorous,  'if  correctly  repeated  and  understood, 
and  the  influence  of  Mr. — Mr. — Harry — er — Sanders 
— why,  surely  that  was  the  young  man  who  had  been 
rusticated  at  Oxford,  years  ago — slightly  hump- 
backed, eh  ?  high-shouldered,  at  any  rate.  And  with  a 
biting  and  disturbing  wit;  the  adapter  of  the  present 
piece  they  were  playing,  and — it  was  said — the  author 
of  the  one  in  prospect?  Mr.  Sanders's  sayings  were 
having  far  too  much  vogue,  and  though  Mervyn  de- 
clared he  was  in  reality  very  kind  of  heart,  his — er — 
influence  was — er — not  what  was  desired  for  under- 
graduates in  their  first  or  second  year. 

However,  Miriam's  ten  days  came  to  an  end  on 
December  16,  and  soon  afterwards  the  undergraduates 
dispersed  to  their  Christmas  home-gatherings,  none 
the  worse  for  the  enormous  frolic  occasioned  by  her 
Cambridge  interlude — rather  the  better,  if  anything,  in 
practical  knowledge  of  the  theatre.  Mervyn  regained 
the  shaken  good  opinion  by  his  usual  capacity  for 
work.  He  stayed  on  at  Cambridge  through  Christmas, 
left  for  a  few  days  to  attend  Jeanne's  wedding,  and 
was  back  once  more  at  his  College  in  time  for  the 
opening  of  the  Lent  term  in  January,  1883. 

He  realised  that  if  he  was  to  carry  out  his  Cam- 
bridge studies  satisfactorily,  and  yet  justify  the  allot- 
ment of  his  salary  from  Mr.  Harmon's  firm — £250  a 
year — in  addition  to  his  family  allowance  of  £150, 
annually,  during  his  College  courses — he  must  give  up 
to  office  work  in  London  or  abroad  the  periods  be- 
tween his  University  residence.  Cambridge  would  get 
the  better  of  the  allotment  in  time  by  the  office  allow- 
ing him  to  spend  a  month  of  the  long  vacation  there, 
studying  botany. 

He  consequently  became  a  much  overworked  and  at 
times  rather  irritable  young  man.  Between  mid- 


188  THE  VENEERINGS 

January  and  mid-March,  mid- April  and  mid- June ;  and 
again  from  the  end  of  September  to  the  early  part  of 
December  he  was  resident  at  Peterhouse,  working 
desperately  hard  to  prepare  for  and  ultimately  to  pass 
the  examinations  for  the  tripos  in  Natural  Science. 
He  also  generally  came  to  Cambridge  for  August,  so 
as  to  work  quietly  at  the  Botanical  Gardens  and  in  the 
libraries.  Cambridge  was  at  its  quietest  then,  for  in 
July,  though  the  Easter  term  was  well  over,  there  were 
tiresome  festivities  and  parties. 

As  against  these  terms  of  residence  at  Peterhouse,  he 
spent  March  to  April  in  London,  working  at  the  office 
and  availing  himself  of  the  oft-times  silent  hospitality 
of  Wigmore  Street.  So,  also,  in  June  and  July  he  was 
at  Mr.  Harmon's  disposal,  either  to  assist  with  corre- 
spondence and  the  supervision  of  experiments  in 
Gloucestershire  or  to  visit  and  report  on  the  Pyrenees 
Gardens;  though  these  last  were  usually  seen  in  Sep- 
tember. In  September,  also,  there  was  office  work  to 
be  done,  and  "likewise  in  December-January.  And  in 
between  all  this  strenuousness  he  found  an  occasional 
week  or  five  days  to  visit  his  parents  or  his  sister  in  the 
north  of  France.  Harmon  was  kind,  but  punctilious ; 
the  more  so,  because  he  found  himself  naturally  more 
drawn  towards  this  young  Veneering  in  sympathy  and 
fellow-feeling  than  towards  his  own  two  sons. 

Reggie  was  growing  up  a  good-looking,  stalwart 
young  fellow,  but  with  a  sullen,  dissatisfied  disposition. 
He  cared  absolutely  nothing  for  "  science,"  and  re- 
sented extremely  his  father's  disposition  of  his  wealth. 
For  a  man  to  have  a  capital  of  "  more  than  " — (I  can- 
not find  corroboration  of  the  "more  than") — three 
hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  to  leave  half  of  that 
sum  invested,  more  or  less  inextricably,  in  the  finances 
of  a  "  drug  "  firm  seemed  to  Reggie  a  kind  of  lower 
middle-class  lunacy.  Father  may  have  come  from  lit- 
tle short  of  artisan  ancestry  on  one  side,  but  then  so 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  189 

had  the  Plasseys  and  the  Podgemores,  already  in  the 
peerage,  because  they  had  played  their  cards  properly 
and  been  generous  to  the  right  people  and  the  right 
party.  But  father,  though  he  had  been  some  years  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  seemed  never  friends  with  the 
big  men  who  had  honours  and  posts  to  give  away.  He 
was  always  mad  about  reforms  that  would  benefit  other 
people ;  and,  moreover,  here  he  had  been  for  two  years, 
at  least,  making  an  undue  fuss  about  a  young  bounder 
from  goodness  knows  where  in  France,  with  a  dubious 
father  who  had  run  away  from  England  ages  ago 
because  he  had  got  into  financial  trouble — and  there 
was  the  aforesaid  bounder  allotted  a  bedroom  at  their 
scarcely-used,  mucked-up  town  house — more  a  museum 
than  a  house — and  being  backed  at  Cambridge  till  you 
might  almost  have  believed  there  was  something  rum 
about  his  exact  parentage,  some  by-blow  of  father's  in 
his  youth,  before  he  married  mother. 

Reggie  conceived  himself  very  hardly  dealt  with 
when  he  had  discussed  the  disposition  of  his  life  with 
his  father  after  he  had  gone  to  Eton.  He  was  given 
then  to  understand  that  whilst  at  school,  and  after  all 
his  reasonable  school  expenses  were  paid,  he  would  be 
allowed  "  pocket-money,"  to  the  extent  of  a  hundred 
pounds  yearly;  that  when  he  passed  from  Eton  to 
University  or  Military  College  he  should  have  double 
this  amount  to  spend  on  himself  and  his  tastes;  and 
that  when  he  was  twenty-one  he  would  be  given  five 
hundred  a  year  till  his  father's  death  when  he,  like  all 
his  brothers  and  sisters,  would  inherit  twenty  thousand 
pounds  apiece,  in  addition  to  anything  their  mother 
might  choose  to  leave  them. 

So  far  as  his  father  was  concerned  he  intended  each 
one  of  his  children  to  be  treated  alike :  each  should  be 
left  twenty  thousand  pounds  at  his  death;  but  before 
then  the  two  boys,  on  attaining  their  majority  at 
twenty-one,  were  to  receive  an  income  of  five  hundred 


IQO  THE  VENEERINGS 

pounds  a  year,  and  the  girls  three  hundred.  If  they 
wanted  more  than  that  they  must  attain  it  through 
work:  work  in  his  firm — in  its  branch  offices  or  plan- 
tations, or  work  in  any  other  respectable  career. 

This  decision  was  made  known  to  Reggie  in  response 
to  his  fretful  inquiries  when  he  was  sixteen.  John, 
being  then  only  a  school-boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen, 
scarcely  worried  about  the  future;  he  only  resembled 
his  elder  brother  in  being  most  perversely  indifferent  to 
chemistry  or  drugs,  and  shared  his  opinion  that  father 
with  at  one  time  a  control  over  "  a  pot  of  money  " — 
three  hundred  thousand  pounds — had  acted  most  un- 
fairly towards  his  children  in  not  dropping  all  debasing 
business  and  applying  his  fortune  to  the  ample  life  of  a 
country  gentleman,  and  making  ample  provision  for 
his  two  sons  to  lead  a  similar  life  in  their  turn  without 
any  effort  on  their  part. 

John  Harmon's  disappointment  in  his  sons  only 
gradually  dawned  on  his  imagination.  He  was  excep- 
tionally indulgent  to  youth ;  wanted  it  to  shape  itself 
unfettered;  if  his  lads  had  severally  objected  to  the 
cramped  and  old-fashioned  education  of  a  public 
school,  he  would  gladly  have  released  them  and  let 
them  choose  their  own  medium  of  education.  But  he 
so  constantly  looked  back  on  his  own  past,  the  risks  he 
had  run  of  under-education,  the  efforts  he  had  had  to 
make  not  to  sink  down  altogether  into  the  mire  of 
existence  that  he  was  somewhat  conservatively  inclined 
in  their  case.  Many  men  shook  their  heads  (in  remem- 
brance of  their  own  past)  over  the  fruitless  years  of 
boyhood  spent  at  the  crack  schools  of  their  country; 
familiarity  with  certain  games,  with  a  certain  argot, 
certain  cuts  of  clothes,  certain  fashions  and  frolics, 
but  very  little  real  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its 
many  problems,  with  honest,  money-making  careers. 
Such  knowledge,  if  they  had  gained  it,  had  come 
through  stress  of  circumstances  after  their  release 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  191 

from  school :  their  education  had  begun  in  their  twen- 
ties, not  in  their  teens. 

Neither  Reggie  nor  John,  however,  found  much 
fault  with  Eton  or  Harrow  in  the  early  'eighties,  John 
even  less  than  Reggie.  John  was  of  slighter  physique 
than  his  elder  brother,  not  ardently  fond  of  rough 
games — only  did  enough  of  them  to  escape  oppro- 
brium. But,  like  Reggie,  he  had  a  strange 'dislike  to 
commerce  and  to  chemistry,  thought  botany  of  a  prac- 
tical nature  "  low,"  worthy  at  most  of  study  by  the 
lesser  clergy  or  unmarriageable,  spectacled  girls  of  the 
lower  middle-class.  He  wished  his  own  career  to  lie 
in  literature,  but  literature  of  a  recondite  character ;  he 
would  be  a  poet  without  the  vulgarity  of  rhyme  ;.some- 
thing  "  dynamic,"  nothing  of  the  stale  type  of  old 
Tennyson  or  Coventry  Patmore,  or  even  too  much  like 
Swinburne.  He  would  sing  of  strange  emotions,  un- 
avowable  in  plain  language,  of  uncouth,  subtle  or  dan- 
gerous plants — that  was  a  poet's  only  use  for  botany — 
cactuses  or  upas  trees,  throttling  seaweeds  or  poisonous 
cucurbits.  It  was  insupportable  that  father  should 
belong  to  a  City  firm  which  supplied  shops  and  stores 
with  medicines!  And  father  was  a  Liberal — John  and 
his  brother  were  embittered  Conservatives. 

Mrs.  Harmon  laughed  at  much  of  this  peevishness, 
though  with  a  slight  leaven  of  uneasiness.  Her  girls 
said  "  For  shame!  ",  and  preferred  Mervyn's  personal 
appearance  and  tennis  play,  dragging — without  cause, 
as  Reggie  complained — his  unmentioned  name  into  the 
discussions  and  comparisons.  Bella  was  troubled  with 
misgivings,  now  and  again,  as  to  whether  her  husband 
might  not  be  doing  more  to  interest  their  boys  in  his 
gigantic  business,  might  not  move  a  little  less  obviously 
in  the  pushing-on  of  young  Veneering.  And  yet,  urged 
thereto  by  her  husband  and  her  eldest  daughter  and  her 
own  good  nature,  she  came  to  Cambridge  for  this 


I92  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  May  week  "  of  1883— held  like  other  "  May  weeks  " 
at  the  beginning  of  June.  Mervyn  would  not  be  row- 
ing or  cricketing,  but  he  was  acting  in  the  Amateur 
Dramatic  Society's  performance,  taking  part  in  gym- 
nasium displays,  a  fencing  contest,  and  a  Volunteer 
review.  And  Hetty  seemed  to  want  her  to  go. 

Hetty  at  this  period  was  nineteen,  the  eldest  of  her 
children,  and  the  handsomest  of  her  girls.  She  was 
taller  than  her  mother  by  several  inches,  and  her  de- 
meanour had  a  tendency  towards  gravity,  not  because 
she  was  of  a  religious  cast  of  mind  or  a  prig  or  any- 
thing else  that  was  near  disagreeable,  but  because  she 
was  puzzled  over  the  enigma  of  life  and  sensitively 
acute  to  suffering,  and  aware  of  its  existence  even  in 
North  Gloucestershire,  aware  even  there  of  a  curious 
lack  of  justice  in  the  dispositions  of  Divine  Providence. 
She  had  found  an  attractiveness  about  this  Veneering 
boy  when  he  was  eighteen  and  nineteen.  When  he  was 
twenty-one  and  at  Cambridge  as  a  student,  more  devel- 
oped in  mind  and  outlook,  more  settled  in  becoming 
manliness  than  the  majority  of  his  companions,  she 
knew  she  was  in  love  with  him,  and  perhaps  showed  it 
in  her  eyes  or  the  tones  of  her  voice.  He  then  knew 
that  he  was  in  love  with  h-er,  and  in  a  lesser  degree 
with  her  sisters,  and  that  he  ardently  desired  to  marry 
her  and  would  work  with  additional  stress  and  energy 
to  justify  the  proposal.  And  her  eyes,  though  no  word 
was  spoken,  told  him  she  would  wait,  and  that  she  was 
demurely  content  with  his  decision. 

Meantime,  in  this  particular  June  week  of  1883,  sne 
boated,  danced,  and  walked  with  him  as  much  as  the 
circumstances  of  the  time  permitted ;  she  went  with  her 
mother  to  the  theatrical  performance,  wherein  he 
missed  his  cue  when  their  eyes  met.  She  watched  him 
fence  with  varying  success,  and  tacitly  admired  his 
well-knit  body  in  the  wearisome  gymnastics.  She  saw 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  193 

him  as  a  Volunteer,  and  considered  that  he  "  made  " 
the  uniform,  rather  than  that  it  added  any  confirma- 
tion to  his  soldierly  figure. 

Perhaps  the  most  delightful  surprise  of  all  that  June 
week — at  quite  the  end  of  it — was  the  arrival  of  Jeanne 
and  her  husband.  Formally  announced  he  was 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Gaston  Dudeffrand.  Intro- 
duced to  the  University  authorities  and  then  to  Mer- 
vyn's  student  friends,  he  lingered  for  several  years  as 
"  Doody  "  in  Cambridge  memories.  His  boldly  broken 
English  was  their  delight,  equally  with  his  genial  ac- 
ceptance of  their  shocking  French.  Jeanne  had  had 
such  doubts  as  to  whether  she  could  bring  him  and 
whether  he  could  get  permission  from  his  still  jealous 
military  authorities,  that  she  had  said  nothing  of  her 
purpose  to  her  brother.  But  here  they  were — Jeanne 
looking  "  perfectly  lovely  " — as  Hetty  declared  with 
real  enthusiasm;  Gaston  fatuously  happy,  winsomely 
good-looking,  but  measuring  two  inches  shorter  than 
Mervyn,  who  now  definitely  stood  up  six  feet  in  his 
stockings. 

What  a  treat  good-looking  people  are!  How  they 
ought  to  be  encouraged  where  the  generality  is  so 
commonplace,  and  so  many  are  still  positively  ugly  and 
misshapen.  Bella  Harmon  at  forty-two  had  not  yet 
been  touched  with  sorrow  or  by  any  great  anxiety.  She 
was  only  five  feet  three  in  height,  three  or  four  inches 
shorter  than  Hetty.  Her  chocolate-brown  hair  had  no 
grey  threads,  her  violet-blue  eyes  still  sparkled,  sTie 
still  blushed  with  excitement  or  pleasure,  her  figure 
avoided  stoutness  without  obvious  constriction,  her 
costume  had  the  extreme  of  fashion  restrained  by  good 
taste.  Hetty  was  lovely,  opulently  lovely  in  a  rather 
large  and  quiet  way.  Jeanne  was  a  handsome  blend 
between  brunette  and  blonde,  and  as  tall  as  Hetty. 
Gaston,  to  a  woman's  eyes,  was  rather  disturbingly 
good-looking.  He  gave  them  the  feeling  then  that  if 


I94  THE  VENEERINGS 

he  hadn't  fallen  in  love  with  a  good  woman  who  loved 
him,  he  might  have  gone  to  the  bad  for  love.  Possibly 
he  would  not.  He  would  merely  have  ceased  to  be 
good-looking  and  attractive  in  a  woman's  eyes;  for 
good  looks,  when  probed  to  their  essence,  are  as  often 
as  not  a  good  spirit  looking  out  through  ordinary  eyes, 
nose,  and  hair.  If  the  good  spirit  turns  bad,  the  hair 
comes  out  or  loses  its  colour,  the  nose  thickens  or  turns 
red,  the  eyes  cease  to  dance  with  light  or  to  glow  with 
fire,  the  smooth  brow  is  furrowed. 

Mervyn  I  have  already  described.  He  was  mainly  a 
sound,  wholesome,  eager  youth ;  insistence  on  details  of 
eye  and  skin-colour,  moustache  and  eyelashes  would 
make  him  seem  a  fop — a  condition  he  would  have  died 
rather  than  incur. 

Well,  here  was  Bella,  the  young-minded,  quite  for- 
getting the  nascent  trouble  of  her  own  sons,  happy  that 
her  eldest  daughter  should  have  found  happiness,  happy 
above  all  to  think  that  the  handsome,  well-married 
Jeanne,  the  good-looking  and  noteworthy  Mervyn  were 
almost  the  direct  results  of  dear  old  John's  goodness  of 
heart  and  kindly  discernment.  [She  thought  herself  an 
orthodox  Church  of  England  Christian,  but  in  reality 
she  worshipped  John  Harmon  as  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost:  women  with  good  husbands  were  like 
that  in  those  days,  before  Lady  Diana  Drake-Tolle- 
mache  and  Marola  Pounce-Hughes  had  set  other  fash- 
ions to  the  tune  of  constant  cigarettes,  cocaine  injec- 
tions, and  complexion  painting.] 

Here,  then,  was  Bella  feeling  very  glad  indeed  she 
had  come  to  Cambridge  for  May  week;  here  was 
Hetty,  resting  at  last  after  a  year  of  anxiety  to  know 
by  eye-glance  and  hand-pressure  that  her  love  was 
returned;  here  was  Mervyn  in  the  most  simmering 
happiness  over  his  career,  his  choice  of  mate,  his  sister 
and  her  choice  of  husband — over  the  weather,  over  his 
having  beaten  Jevons  in  the  fencing  bout,  his  success 


CAMBRIDGE:  1882-1883  195 

on  the  amateur  stage,  where  his  good  looks  and  his 
love-making — with  one  eye  on  Hetty  in  the  stalls — 
atoned  for  his  f orgetfulness  of  fatuous  sentences ;  here 
were  Jeanne  and  Gaston,  Jeanne  mainly  happy  because 
she  was  respectable  and  her  people  had  all  become  so, 
and  Gaston  was  her  husband ;  and  Gaston,  radiant  with 
the  new  joys  of  marriage  and  his  coming  release  from 
the  army,  and  with  surprise  that  the  dour  England  of 
his  imagination  was  so  beautiful  and  so  jolly.  Here 
they  were,  this  party  of  five  people  of  the  middle  class, 
in  the  early  'eighties,  at  the  beginning  of  the  sweet 
English  summer,  when  a  Liberal  Government  in  power 
seemed  in  a  pleasant  way  to  have  caught  the  Jingo 
fever,  and  to  be  wearing  the  Beaconsfield  robes,  and 
no  longer  scowling  at  Imperial  extension;  when  our 
railways  had  become  wholly  efficient  yet  not  over- 
crowded; when  you  could  walk  about  the  broad  and 
narrow  streets  of  Cambridge  heedless  of  vehicles; 
when  you  could  embrace  Darwinism,  as  expounded  by 
Huxley,  without  a  doubt ;  yet  when  the  Heads  of  Col- 
leges held  family  prayers,  lasting  a  full  half  hour;  and 
when  it  meant  social  obloquy  in  all  classes  if  you  fell  in 
love  with  your  deceased  wife's  sister  and  wanted  her  to 
be  a  mother  to  "our  wife's  children. 


CHAPTER  XI 
1885-1887 

MR.  HARMON!"  cried  Mervyn  excitedly,  burst- 
ing without  announcement  into  the  partners' 
room,  at  the  Mincing  Lane  office,  one  morning  in  June, 
1885.  "  I've  passed  as  a  B.A.  Telegram  from  my 
tutor  at  Peterhouse.  Isn't  it  kind  of  him  to  let  me 
know?  Passed  quite  creditably,  he  says.  Here's  his 
telegram " — (John  Harmon  puts  down  a  chemical 
analysis  he  was  conning  and  takes  up  the  telegram) — 
"  Natural  Science,  of  course;  I  worked  at  nothing  else ; 
but  I  did  work  at  that — as  you  know — and  especially 
at  botany  and  chemistry.  ...  I  thought  my  botany 
would  stand  me  in  good  stead.  ...  I  owe  a  lot  to 
Babington.  .  .  .  I'm  so  glad  .  .  .  because  it's  some 

little  return  for  all  you've  done  for  me "     He 

stopped,  his  cheeks  flushed,  confused  like  most  Eng- 
lishmen with  the  shame  of  showing  emotion. 

Harmon  put  down  the  telegram  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  shake  Mervyn's,  saying  as  he  did  so:  "  Well, 
I  am  glad !  I  hate  gush,  but,  you  know,  Melvin — now 
what  whim  of  the  brain  brings  back  that  old  name  ?  I 
mean,  you  know,  Mervyn — my  dear  lad — I  am  so  glad. 
It  seems  to  justify  me  for  my  interference  with  this 
firm.  The  news  will  cheer  up  your  father — and  poor 
old  Wilfer,  who's  grown  very  fond  of  you.  I'm  afraid 
he'll  never  sit  in  that  chair  again.  I'm  going  along  to 
see  him  presently,  when  I've  got  through  the  morning's 
business.  'Fraid  you'll  have  to  stop  and  do  the  corre- 
spondence. .  .  .  Left  a  sheaf  of  notes  for  you. 

196 


1885-1887  i97 

There's  a  letter  from  your  friend  and  admirer,  Mme. 
de  Lamelle,  about  the  Pyrenees  extension.  .  .  .  She's 
seen  the  Prefet.  .  .  .  Marvellous  woman!  Who'd 
guess  she  was — what  is  it?  Sixty-four?  Must  be. 
.  .  .  Know  she  was  thirty-nine  in  1860.  Ten  years 
older  than  I  am,  by  the  bye.  I'm — alas! — fifty- four. 
Don't  feel  old,  but  I  dare  say  soon  shall,  especially  as 
I'm  virtually  the  sole  working  partner  just  now.  This 
is  a  situation  which  can't  go  on  with  our  huge  exten- 
sion of  work.  Must  talk  it  over  with  you — and — and 
— one  or  two  other  people.  Of  course  I  intend  to  make 
you  a  partner — to  justify  the  name — but  precocious  as 
you  are,  I  don't  feel  I  ought  to  till  your  twenty-fifth 
birthday.  Too  sad,  isn't  it,  that  neither  of  my  boys 
care  a  hang  about  this  grand  business — drugs?  .  .  . 
Cure  for  all  our  ills!  .  .  .  To  think  there's  to  be  no 
further  Harmon  in  the  firm  after  I'm  gone — unless 
you'll  change  your  surname  to  Harmon?  But  no. 
Much  better  stick  to  Veneering  and  justify  your 
father " 

"  Mr.  Harmon !  .  .  .  You  know.  .  .  .  You  know 
I  ...  I  ...  I  want  to  marry  Hetty.  .  .  .  Shouldn't 
have  dared  to  say  so — only — for  this  morning's  news — 
and  because  of  the — the — things  you've  said.  .  .  .  Of 
course  ...  I  ...  haven't  exactly  spoken  to  Hetty. 
At  least,  we  sort  of  agreed  I  shouldn't  speak  till  I  was  a 
little  older,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  had  done  something 
.  .  .  got  my  degree.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  could  simply  hug  my 
tutor  this  morning,  and  the  examiners.  I  was  in  such 
a  funk  I  shouldn't  pass  this  term,  and  should  have  to  go 
on  ...  wasting  time " 

"  Well,  let  me  get  a  word  in,  hang  it  all !  As  you're 
going  to  ask  my  consent — and  approval — I  suppose? 
Well,  dear  lad,  I'm  not  exactly  blind  or  deaf,  nor  is  my 
dear  Bella.  We've  more  or  less  guessed  the  last  two 
years  how  Hetty  felt  towards  you,  and  how  you  felt 
towards  Hetty.  But  we  thought  it  was  just  one  of 


198  THE  VENEERINGS 

those  things  that  settled  themselves,  didn't  require  our 
interference.  Hetty  must  have  made  up  her  mind 
about  you,  or  she'd  have  accepted  one  or  other  of  the 
chaps  who've  tried  to  hang  about  her  in  the  country. 
And  she's  been  learning  botany,  too.  So's  Elizabeth, 
so's  Helen.  Miss  Mitcham's  an  excellent  teacher. 
Astonishing  how  different  they  are  to  the  boys.  But  it 
appears  no  one  ever  placed  a  ban  on  Botany  at  girls' 
schools,  though  I  expect  what  they're  taught  there  is 
sometimes  poor  stuff.  .  .  .  *  Our  English  Flora,'  and 
so  on.  But  my  girls,  of  course,  have  got  our  gardens 
and  houses  at  Chacely.  .  .  .  However,  I'm  extra  dis- 
cursive this  morning,  and  a  thousand  things  are  press- 
ing. I  want  to  see  old  Wilfer  before  lunch,  and  I've 
got  at  least  five  letters  to  dictate  to  you  before  I  go. 
Let's  wind  up  the  other  great  question  by  saying  this : 
that  I  don't  disapprove — no,  hang  it  all !  I'll  be  nat- 
ural and  not  governed  by  forms.  I'm  downright  glad 
you  and  Hetty  want  to  marry.  Downright  glad.  As 
a  reward  for  your  B.A.  I — we — must  remember  her 
mother — we  don't  mind  your  considering  your- 
selves engaged  to  one  another  straight  away,  if  that 
gives  you  any  satisfaction.  .  .  .  'Spect  it  will;  But 
there  mustn't  be  any  idea  of  marriage  before  you've 
done  your  two  years'  travel  and  been  made  a  partner. 
There!  Will  that  satisfy  you?  If  so,  shake!" 
— (they  shake  hands) — "  And  then  let's  drop  all 
further  love-palaver  and  get  to  those  letters.  One 
of  them  I  must  sign  before  I  go.  Here  it  is: — 
'  Madison  Corness,  Esq.'  The  address  is  '  Golden 
Cross  Hotel,  Charing  Cross.  June  12,  1885.  Dear 
Sir.  I  was  interested  in  your  letter,  and  from  it  to 
learn  that  you  ' — comma — '  the  writer  ' — comma — 
'  are  the  son  of  ' — am  I  going  too  fast? — '  the  son  of 
such  a  distinguished  American  chemist,  with  ' — er — 
er — '  with  whose  writings — and  reports  ' — think  I've 
read  'em  somewhere — '  writings  and  reports  I  am  fa- 


1885-1887  i99 

miliar.  I  shall  be  in  London  this  summer  till  Parlia- 
ment rises  in  August,  arid  ' — er — er — '  though  a  busy 
man  ' — no,  you'd  better  write — '  a  very  busy  man — 
could  see  you  most  week-day  mornings  either  here  at 
this  address  in  the  City  or,  if  you  preferred  it,  at  my 
house,  No.  i,  Wigmore  Street,  Cavendish  Square.  If 
you  are  a  tolerably  early  riser,  indeed,  you  might  like 
to  come  and  breakfast  with  me  at  nine  o'clock  at  that 
address.  We  could  have  an  hour's  talk  afterwards,  if 
you  choose  a  Saturday  morning.'  Um.  .  .  .  Um.  .  .  . 
You  might  go  on  like  this,  it  will  be  simpler.  '  Sup- 
pose, to  make  things  clearer,  I  propose  to  you  next 
Saturday,  breakfast  at  nine  sharp,  i,  Wigmore  Street? 
If  this  is  inconvenient,  please  make  your  own  prop- 
osition, only  if  you  come  to  see  me  in  the  City  I  am 
very  much  pressed  for  time  when  there.  I  should 
like  to  make  your  visit  to  England  ' — comma — 'to 
London  ' — comma — '  pleasant.  We  can  talk  all  that 
over  when  we  meet.  Yours  very  truly,  etc.'  .  .  . 
Got  that?  Well,  then,  the  other  four  letters  are  all 
to  be  answers  to  these:  Mrs.  McGowan,  Edinburgh, 
Captain  Edward  Stevenson — he's  sent  us  some  samples 
of  native  drugs  from  Nyasaland — the  Revd.  Aldraith 
— that's  as  far  as  I  can  make  it  out — Aldraith  Cornish, 
Tamatave,  Madagascar — dried  specimens  of  plants — 
and  Messrs.  Richthofen  of  Something-or-other  Platz— - 
hate  this  old  German  print — Berlin.  You  can  devise 
the  answers — none  of  them  are  very  important — arid  I 
shall  be  able  to  judge  by  them  of  your  growing  ability. 
Fancy  you're  already  a  partner,  two  years  hence,  and 
think  how  you  might  be  inclined  to  answer  them  then ! 
I'll  look  through  the  letters  and  sign  them  some  time  or 
other  to-day  or  to-morrow.  Now,  let  me  have  the 
first  to  sign  for  post  before  I  go  now.  Quick!  I'll  be 
putting  back  these  specimens  while  you  do  it." 

Having  telegraphed  thanks  to  his  tutor  at  Peter- 


200  THE  VENEERINGS 

house  and  attended  to  all  the  notes  and  dictation  re- 
garding correspondence  at  the  Mincing  Lane  office, 
Mervyn,  at  half -past  five,  left  the  City  by  river  steamer 
for  Chelsea,  and  soon  after  six  went  quietly — but  two 
steps  at  a  time — up  the  staircase  of  old  Wilfer's  house 
in  Cheyne  Walk,  and  knocked  a  little  breathless  at 
his  bedroom  door.  The  door  was  opened  by  Hetty. 
Squeezing  her  hand  as  he  passed  by,  Mervyn  next 
greeted  his  future  mother-in-law,  Bella  Harmon;  and 
then  her  father. 

The  old  man  had  his  head  turned  to  look  out  of  his 
bedroom  window  at  the  horizon  of  the  river,  the  fac- 
tories, trees  of  Battersea,  and  dim,  vague  buildings 
beyond  it  to  the  south.  He  scarcely  noted  the  incoming 
of  the  young  man,  but  went  on  prattling  to  himself  in 
a  low  voice  interspersed  with  chuckles.  His  thoughts, 
mainly  gay  and  tender,  ranged  over  twenty  years  of 
time  back  to  the  'sixties.  Occasionally  he  pulled  him- 
self together  and  turned  his  head  towards  where  his 
daughter  sat :  "  I'm  wandering  a  bit,  my  dear,  in  my 
recollections.  All  that  was  a  long  time  ago.  Here  we 
are  in  the  middle  of  the  'eighties;  but  just  now  it 
seemed  to  me  we  were  back  in  'sixty-five,  when  your 
poor  dear  mother  was  about,  and  you'd  just  moved 
into  Wigmore  Street.  And  we  were  still  in  Holloway, 
though  everything  seemed  gay  enough.  Lavvy  was 
going  to  get  married.  .  .  .  Why,  I  saw  Lavvy  yester- 
day. .  .  .  Was  it?  And  all  her  children  are  growing 
up.  .  .  .  And  here's  Mervyn,  who  wasn't  even  thought 
of  in  those  days.  .  .  .  Mervyn,  boy,  I've  grown  so 
fond  of  you,  I  can't  somehow  believe  you  weren't  one 
of  us  in  those  days!  Ah,  those  were  good  times, 
though  they  hadn't  begun  the  riverside  embankment. 
'Member  our  Greenwich  dinners,  dear  one?  How  we 
kept  the  knowledge  of  'em  from  your  poor  Ma?  She 
died  in  this  bed,  didn't  she,  matter  of — oh,  there!  I've 
lost  my  powers  of  calculating " 


I885-I887  201 

"It  was  in  1878,  November.  1878,  Pa."  said  Bella, 
gently,  in  reply. 

"  'Seventy-eight?  Was  it?  How  my  memory's  go- 
ing! The  autumn,  after  all  that  to-do  between  Dizzy 
and  Russia,  and  the  Indian  troops  going  to  Malta,  and 
the  Berlin  Conference.  To  be  sure.  But  here  she  is, 

here's  your  Ma,  Bella,  so  that's  alright "  And  he 

greeted  with  his  eyes  some  familiar  figure  who  seemed 
to  stand  at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  And  in  the  greeting 
his  face  looked  so  happy,  his  faith  seemed  so  implicit, 
that  his  daughter  had  not  the  heart  to  utter  the  usual 
correction  of  the  sane. 

"  Is  she,  Pa?  I'm  so  glad."  (To  Hetty  arid  Mer- 
vyn.)  "  Now,  you  two  dear  things " 

"  Mrs.  Harmon !  "  ejaculated  Mervyn.  "  I'm  sure 
your  father  won't  mind  my  letting  it  out  now,  he's 
always  been  so  kind  about  me.  Mrs.  Harmon — your 
— your  husband  has  consented  to  my  marrying  Hetty 
— if — if  you  consent  too.  I  don't  mean  at  once" — 
(seeing  a  look  of  alarm  coming  into  Bella's  face) — "  I 
mean  after  about  two  years,  when  I've  done  something 
to  qualify  for  partnership." 

Hetty's  eyes  shine  and  colour  comes  into  her  cheeks, 
and  she  says  softly,  "Oh  Mervyn! " 

"  And  I  thought — if — if  you  didn't  mind.  .  .  . 
Somehow  I  don't  think  you  will  refuse  .  .  .  your 
father  might  like  to  know.  .  .  .  That  was  why  I  hur- 
ried here,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  away  from  the  office. 
.  .  .  And  if  you  haven't  seen  Mr.  Harmon  at  lunch 
time — or  if  he  was  too  busy  to  tell  you — there's  an- 
other .  .  .  piece  ...  of  news  you  and  Hetty.  .  .  . 
Yes !  and  Mr.  Wilfer,  too  .  .  .  might  like  to  hear  .  .  . 
I'm — I  mean  I've  passed  for  a  B.A.  at  Cambridge.  .  .  . 
So  my  time  there  is  over1 — will  be  shortly — and  I  can 
go  abroad  and  travel  for  the  firm 

And  Mervyn  stops,  because  he  fears  dreadfully  he  is 
going  to  show  a  shake  in  his  voice.  The  pathos  grips 


202  THE  VENEERINGS 

him.  Here — so  obviously — is  this  poor  old  man  going 
to  quit  life,  this  consciousness  of  life;  he  is  so  evidently 
at  the  end  of  his  career  .  .  .  how  can  this  future  of 
the  new  generation  interest  him  ?  The  ghastly  cruelty 
of  Death  among  those  that  love! 

But  Wilfer  turns  his  face  toward  the  three;  his 
daughter  seated  by  the  bed,  his  grand-daughter  and 
her  betrothed  standing,  their  arms  already  interlaced. 

"  Going  to  be  married?  "  he  exclaims.  "  Now,  that's 
just  what  I  wanted!  I  wanted  to  live  to  hear  that. 
Now  I  shan't  mind  dying."  And  he  turned  to  nod  to 
the  figure  he  seemed  to  descry  at  the  end  of  his  bed,  and 
gave  it  a  friendly  smile. 

Bella  gave  a  hand  to  her  daughter  and  to  Mervyn  as 
intimation  of  her  acceptance  of  the  long- foreseen,  but 
she  found  no  words,  for  she  was  crying  impulsively, 
heart-breakingly.  Her  father  was  so  obviously  dying, 
so  near  the  borderland  of  non-existence  or  change  of 
existence;  she  realised  she  was  no  longer  twenty, 
twenty-one,  twenty-two,  a  young  bride  entering  on  the 
real  experience  of  life;  but  a  wife  and  mother,  of 
forty-five,  mother  not  only  of  three  dear  girls,  but  of 
two  discontented  boys — very,  very  dear  to  her,  but 
somehow  not  getting  oh  like  Mervyn,  not  at  all  inter- 
ested in  their  father's  plans  and  projects.  Old  Wilfer, 
her  father,  fell  into  a  kind  of  blissful  silence  and  gazed 
away  towards  the  river,  unheeding  the  company  in  his 
room.  .  .  .  Mervyn  and  Hetty  instinctively  withdrew, 
and  talked  very  quietly  in  the  little  library  below  .  .  . 
which  the  day-nurse  vacated. 

"  I — I've  never  properly  proposed  to  you,  darling. 
I  thought  I — oughtn't  to  till  I  had  spoken  either  to  your 
father  or  your  mother.  I  did  speak  to  him  to-day 
after  I  got  the  telegram  from  Judson.  And  he  con- 
sented. Only  he  doesn't  want  the  marriage  to  come 
off  till  I'm  made  a  partner  .  .  .  and  he  thinks  I  ought 
to  work  for  another  two  years  before  that  conies  to 


1885-1887  203 

pass.  Every  one  seems  to  blame  me  for  being  young. 
I  suppose  it's  jealousy  because  they're  old!  He  re- 
minded me  the  other  day  that  I  shouldn't  be  twenty- 
three  till  August  five." 

"  Well,  darling,  p'raps  they're  right.  At  any  rate, 
it  looks  very  much  as  though  poor  grandfather — I  do 
wish  mother  would  say  '  father '  and  not  '  Pa/  .  .  . 
But  I  s'pose  the  dear  thing  is  really  incurable.  .  .  . 
Difference  between  her  '  age  '  and  '  ours  ' — well,  it 
looks  very  much  as  though  the  poor  old  thing  was  very 
ill,  going  to  die  soon.  We  couldn't  in  decency  marry 
whilst  we  were  in  mourning — at  least  I  suppose  not. 
.  .  .  But,  you  know,  you've  known  for  two  years  at 
least  that  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  you.  Don't 
let's  have  any  silly  doubts  about  that.  .  .  .  You  know 
you're  not  looking  a  bit  smart  this  afternoon — evening, 
I  s'pose  it  is  now.  Go  back  to  your  rooms — where  are 
you  staying  now  ?  " 

"  I've  actually  gone  back  to  Villiers  Street.  I  real- 
ised if  I  was  going  to  leave  Cambridge  I  should  be  a 
beastly  nuisance  in  Wigmore  Street,  especially  now 
Reggie  wants  a  room  there,  and  you're  all  of  you  up  in 
town — so  I  went  round  to  19.  The  Fairbairns  are 
giving  it  up  in  a  year  or  two,  when  the  lease  expires, 
but  are  fortunately  still  in  possession.  And  by  good 
luck  the  back  suite  of  rooms  that  Miriam  Clements 
used  to  occupy  was  vacant,  so  I've  secured  it  for  three 
months,  at  any  rate.  ...  I  dare  say  your  father'll  let 
me  come  down  from  time  to  time  to  Chacely  this  sum- 
mer when  I'm  not  abroad.  Of  course,  I  fully  realise 
that  for  the  next  two  years  I  must  devote  myself — 
heartier  than  ever — to  the  firm's  business,  and  I  shall 
have  to  do  a  lot  of  travelling.  .  .  .  Better  I  should; 
otherwise  I  should  be  fretting  to  get  married."  Here 
he  kissed  her  with  a  sudden  impulse — not  the  chaste 
kiss  of  betrothal  they  had  exchanged  in  the  old 
man's  bedroom,  but  the  passionate  kiss  of  an  eager 


204  THE  VENEERINGS 

young  lover.     Hetty   returned  it  with  self-abandon- 
ment. 

Then  each  heaving  a  happy  sigh  parted,  and  Mervyn 
turned  his  steps  once  more  to  the  steamer  pier  to  return 
down  the  river  to  Villiers  Street  and  a  thousand  small, 
happy  things  that  wanted  doing.  Amongst  others  he 
must  let  Miriam  know — about  the  B.A.  and  the  defi- 
nite betrothal — and  Jeanne  Dudeffrand — and  mother 
and  father — and  Madame  de  Lamelle  and  Georgy,  and 
lots  of  other  jolly  good  chaps  and  dear  kind  women. 

Old  Mr.  Wilfer  died  in  the  middle  of  that  June  of 
some  undiagnosed  weakness,  or  fading  out,  as  yet  only 
vaguely  defined  by  doctors  as  "  sheer  old  age " — 
though  he  was  only  seventy-seven.  So  far  as  his  bab- 
ble on  his  deathbed  was  concerned  he  almost  seemed, 
before  breath  departed,  to  have  gained  the  other  side 
and  to  be  uttering  broken  sentences  from  a  happy  re- 
union there.  There  only  remained  out  of  his  family 
three  members  on  this  side :  Bella,  Lavinia,  and  Susie. 
Lavinia,  of  course,  had  done  much  of  the  nursing,  and 
was  probably  with  him  when  he  breathed  at  slower 
intervals,  and  at  last  breathed  no  more  as  his  eyes 
seemed  to  be  looking  into  the  eyes  of  some  invisible 
person.  So  Bella  had  only  to  tell  Susie  by  letter ;  and 
with  greater  leisure  and  circumspection  to  write  to  the 
other  children  in  far-away  lands,  so  far  as  she  pos- 
sessed knowledge  of  their  addresses.  Susie  did  not 
even  answer  her  letter.  She  was  at  that  time  con- 
vulsing audiences  at  the  Haymarket  in  one  of  her  land- 
lady parts. 

"  I've  seen  this  American  man,  Corness,"  said  Mr. 
Harmon,  as  Mervyn  was  going  up  to  dress  for  dinner 
at  Chacely  Priory — the  funeral  of  Mr.  Wilfer  was  to 
take  place  the  next  day  in  Chacely  churchyard.  "  I've 
had  him  to  breakfast  at  No.  One,  and  I  gave  him  din- 


1885-1887  205 

ner  at  the  House  of  Commons  just  before  poor  old 
Wilfer  died.  And,  further,  had  him  at  the  office 
whilst  you  were  at  Cambridge.  He  is  really  something 
out  of  the  common.  He's  given  me  the  fullest  particu- 
lars and  references.  Of  course  we  must  look  every- 
thing up  in  a  business-like  way;  indeed,  I  have  even 
thought,  when  you  are  free  from  entanglements,  of 
sending  you  over  to  the  States,  in  a  quiet  way,  to  study 
his  people  and  connections  and  find  out  all  you  can 
about  his  business  and  his  aims.  I've  some  recollection 
of  his  father's  firm  showing  at  the  old  Paris  Exhibition 
.  .  .  'sixty-seven.  He  seems — or  at  least  his  father 
seems — to  have  lots  of  capital,  several  great  people 
on  the  other  side  who  believe  in  him  and  his  researches. 
Americans  are  beginning  to  take  medicine  very  seri- 
ously, and,  as  you  know,  our  researches  and  discoveries 
and  adventures  generally  have  attracted  far  more 
attention  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  than 
they  have  here.  Tell  you  more  about  it  after  dinner ;  in 
fact,  you  and  I  had  better  have  an  hour's  confab  before 
we  go  to  bed.  .  .  .  Sorry,  old  man,  Reggie  showed 
such  bad  manners  at  tea-time.  I  thought  you  behaved 
admirably.  His  mother's  quite  upset,  especially  be- 
cause her  father's  going  to  be  buried  here  to-morrow." 
"  Don't  you  bother  about  that,  Mr.  Harmon.  It'd 
take  a  lot  to  offend  me,  under  your  roof.  Reggie's  up- 
set about  something,  though  what,  I  can't  quite  under- 
stand, except  it  is  that  I'm  engaged  to  his  sister.  But  I 
shall  keep  out  of  his  way  as  much  as  I  can  till  the 
funeral's  over,  and  then  I  must  go  back  to  London  to 
the  office.  After  that  I  want,  next  week-end — if  you'll 
let  me — to  clear  up  some  more  small  matters  at  Cam- 
bridge ;  and  then  I'm  ready  to  do  anything  you  like — 
America,  France,  London.  But  I'll  admit  I'm  restless, 
a  bit  off  my  chump  with  happiness,  I  expect.  I  wish  I 
could  get  through  these  two  years  quickly — unless 
you'd  let  me  get  married  before  they're  up  ?  " 


206  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  No.  I  don't  want  you  to  get  married  till  I  can 
make  you  a  partner,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that  till 
you're  twenty-five,  and  have  done  something  note- 
worthy for  the  business.  You  promise  well — extremely 
well — but  I  must  be  able  to  quote  performances.  You 
know  enough  about  our  business  to  realise  that  it  bor- 
ders on  the  gigantic,  the  world-shaking,  but  that,  as 
compared  with  other  things  equally  momentous,  it  is 
lacking  in  capital.  I  have  put  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds  into  it,  and  have  paid  away  no  small 
sums  out  of  my  regular  income  in  addition — in  times 
past — to  get  over  the  firm's  difficulties  and  to  smooth 
its  path.  .  .  .  The  mischief  about  the  whole  thing  is 
that  drugs  do  not  appeal  to  either  of  our  two  boys  as  a 
career.  I  don't  see  the  fun  of  giving  either  of  the  boys 
a  salary,  merely  so  that  they  should  play  a  sulky  or  in- 
effective part  in  the  concern.  .  .  .  Even  then,  I 
shouldn't  get  hold  of  Reggie.  As  you  know,  Mrs. 
Boffin  died  last  year  and  left  ten  thousand  pounds  to 
Reggie — and  five  thousand,  by  the  bye,  to  Hetty,  her 
godchild — that'll  help  you  a  bit,  by  and  by.  Well,  she 
left  these  legacies  on  the  condition  that  they  were  to  be 
vested  in  trustees  till  the  legatees  came  of  age — twenty- 
one.  Hetty  got  hers  in  the  spring,  when  she  had  her 
birthday;  Reggie's  is  not  handed  over  to  him  for  a 
year  yet ;  he  only  draws  the  interest  on  it.  I  sincerely 
hope  when  he  does  get  it  he  won't  waste  it  in  foolish 
ways.  .  .  .  One  way  and  another,  with  the  income 
from  this  legacy  and  what  I  allow  him — five  hundred 
a  year,  till  my  death,  when  he  gets  twenty  thousand 
pounds — he  has  a  thousand  clear.  At  present  he  gets 
very  little  pay  as  a  young  Guards'  officer,  but  before 
long  that'll  mount  up  to — say — about  two  hundred  and 
fifty.  ...  A  young  man  in  his  position,  a  bachelor, 
ought  to  find  himself  pretty  comfortable  on  an  income 
of  twelve  hundred  and  fifty,  and  of  nearly  two  thou- 
sand, after  I'm  gone.  I  tell  him  if  he  wanted  a  small 


1885-1887  207 

fortune  he  should  have  taken  my  advice,  not  become 
a  Guardsman,  but  come  into  our  house,  or  taken  up 
commerce  in  some  other  form.  .  .  .  We  must  go  up 
and  dress.  .  .  .  Sorry  dear  old  Wilfer  chose  the  height 
of  the  summer  to  die  in.  ...  Sorry,  indeed,  that  he's 
dead.  .  .  .  He  got  a  nasty  jar  over  Susan's  return 
.  .  .  and  her  chewing  those  strophanthus  seeds.  Stro- 
phanthus — we  had  better  be  going  up — strophanthus  is 
opening  up.  We're  finding  it  in  all  parts  of  tropical 
Africa  now.  See  that  collection  that  came  in  the  other 
day  from  Sierra  Leone?  This  is  your  room,  as  usual. 
John's  next  door.  Think  he  was  glad  to  get  away 
from  Harrow  for  the  funeral." 

A  few  days  after  Mr.  Wilfer's  funeral  Mervyn  met 
young  Madison  Corness  at  the  office  in  Mincing  Lane. 
Harmon  introduced  them,  and  left  it  to  Mervyn  to  do 
a  painstaking  show-round  over  the  whole  establish- 
ment which  was  as  vast  as  Mincing  Lane  conditions 
allowed.  For  numerous  reasons  John  Harmon  did  not 
wish  to  move  the  City  office  of  his  firm  from  its  old- 
established  site  and  the  long-time  associations  of 
Mincing  Lane,  but  Mincing  Lane  conditions,  City  ob- 
jections to  more  than  one  additional  floor  above  and 
two  tiers  of  cellars  below,  attempts  from  this  and  that 
direction  to  squeeze  John  Harmon — as  a  man  whose 
wealth  rumour  much  exaggerated — into  paying  ex- 
travagantly for  increased  accommodation  were  begin- 
ning to  make  him  think  the  firm's  real  office  might  have 
to  be  somewhere  in  the  outer  ring  of  London,  and  the 
Mincing  Lane  establishment  be  kept  for  show  and 
advertisement  and  the  reception  of  distinguished 
inquirers. 

Something  of  these  panderings  were  explained  to 
Corness,  who  nodded  and  returned  a  non-committal 
reply.  He  admitted  to  being  three-quarters  severely 
practical,  and  the  remaining  quarter  romantic,  poetical 


208  THE  VENEERINGS 

— much  in  the  direction  of  Dickens.  Dickens  had 
written  of  Mincing  Lane.  That,  in  his  eyes,  was  such 
an  honour  that  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.  must  at 
all  costs  maintain  the  Mincing  Lane  office  if  they 
wanted  to  capture  American  sympathies  and  dollars. 
Almost  in  the  same  flow  of  talk  he  asked  that  he  might 
be  taken  out  presently  and  shown  Fledgeby's  presumed 
offices  in  "  Simmery  Axe  "  (a  pronunciation  of  which 
he  was  very  proud — "Gotten  it  right,  first  time!") 
and  other  Dickens'  sites  in  the  City. 

In  the  first  interview  Mervyn  felt  he  liked  Madison 
Corness.  In  the  second  and  third  he  added  cautiously, 
and  then  emphatically,  "  very  much."  Madison — he 
had  come  into  the  world  when  Biblical  names  were 
going  out  of  fashion  in  the  towns  of  the  Eastern  States, 
and  surnames  of  distinction  like  Madison  were  coming 
into  vogue  as  first  names — Madison,  at  first  acquaint- 
ance, was  rather  taciturn  and  apparently  working  hard 
in  silent  appraisement  of  you.  Some  sixth  sense  on 
the  part  of  his  interlocutor  revealed  that  ...  if  the 
interlocutor  was  a  sensitive  person.  He  was  sizing 
you  up  with  all  his  might,  though  he  looked  little  more 
than  boy,  and  was,  indeed,  only  a  year  older  than 
Mervyn.  If  he  decided  against  you,  he  said  nothing — 
ever — but  his  intercourse  rapidly  declined;  if  he  liked 
you  very  much  he  showed  it  rather  in  the  hand-shake 
grip,  the  glint  of  the  grey  eyes,  the  readiness  to  be  at 
hand  for  help  or  conference.  Before  all  things,  he 
was  an  appreciator  of  the  value  of  Time,  a  rare  quality 
then,  even  in  America. 

He  it  was  who  decided  that  Mervyn  should  come  to 
the  United  States  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  and  see 
his  father  and  grandfather,  and  search  for  the  infor- 
mation John  Harmon  wanted.  On  the  joint  recom- 
mendation of  father  and  son — representing  as  they  did 
one  of  the  largest  of  North  American  drug  firms — half 
a  million  dollars,  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  might 


1885-1887  209 

be  found  to  enlarge  the  business  of  John  Harmon's 
firm ;  and  Madison  Corness — youth  notwithstanding — 
would  enter  the  business  in  London  as  a  partner. 
There  would  be — in  course  of  time — affiliated  offices 
of  the  American  firm  (Corness  and  Crabtree)  in  New 
York,  Washington,  Chicago,  San  Francisco. 

"  Who's  Crabtree?  "  inquired  Mervyn  in  these  pre- 
liminary, intoxicating  conversations  when  the  world 
and  its  opportunities  seemed  so  large  if  you  looked  at 
them  from  a  shapely  boat  on  a  Severn  backwater  and 
from  the  point  of  view  of  an  Anglo-American  under- 
standing— quite  a  novel  thing  to  do  in  1885. 

"  Crabtree?  My  Ma's  father,  my  grand-dad,  of 
course.  Rich  as  Satan;  he  could  put  five  hundred 
thousand  dollars  into  this  without  blinkin'.  Folks  say 
he  made  his  money  in  some  unclean  way;  like  as  not, 
but  Ma's  a  peach,  and  he'd  back  anything  she  recom- 
mended. Ma  lost  her  religion  when  she  was  young, 
and  now  she's  mad  on  good  works,  the  only  consolation, 
she  says,  if  you  haven't  faith.  As  to  my  Pop — father, 
I  s'pose  you  say  on  this  side  now?  'Spect  we  shall  go 
back  to  that.  Well,  as  to  my  father,  he's — he's — just 
a  Middle  Ages  magician,  and  the  Greatest  Chemist  in 
America.  But  he's  gone  in  more  for  mineral  drugs  up 
to  now.  Made  much  of  his  money  at  the  time  of  our 
war.  But  we've  tremendous  competition  on  our  side. 
Sixty  millions  of  people,  may  be;  but  half  a  million 
drug  firms,  seems  to  me.  My  old  man  was  over  here 
last  fall,  while  I  was  finishing  up  at  Harvard,  and  got 
wandering  about  France.  He's  the  greatest  chemist 
that  ever  lived,  I  reckon,  but  he  can't  speak  French. 
.  .  .  It's  only  my  generation  that's  beginning  to  learn 
modern  languages.  .  .  .  Yet  somehow  he  came  to  find 
out  what  your  Dad's  bin  doin'  in  the  Pyrenees.  He 
met,  somewhere  in  that  direction,  an  Englishwoman 
with  a  French  name  who  does  a  sort  of  looking  after 
one  of  your  plantations.  My  father — I  will  say  the 


2io  THE  VENEERINGS 

word — my  father  was  much  struck  with  her  shrewd- 
ness and  ability,  and  that  was  how  he  came  to  hear 
about  Mr.  Harmon,  and  what  he  was  doing.  So  I  said 
I'd  make  the  Grand  Tour  and  look  up  Mr.  Harmon 
with  the  necessary  letters  of  introduction,  just  to  show 
him,  of  course,  he  wasn't  having  his  time  wasted. 
Mervyn,  old  man,  we'll  set  out  to  cure  the  world,  and 
get  rich  and  feel  good  in  the  process.  Shake !  " 

So  Mervyn  made  his  first  voyage  across  the  Atlantic 
with  Madison  Corness  in  the  late  summer  of  1885. 
New  York,  then,  "  said"  little  or  nothing  to  him;  it 
scarcely  seemed  noteworthy;  its  highest  building  was 
no  higher  than  Grace  Church.  Its  line  along  the  Hud- 
son was  undistinguished,  much  the  same  as  that  of  any 
nineteenth-century  capital  town,  in  any  part  of  the 
world  where  they  spoke  English.  Wall  Street  might 
have  been  part  of  Manchester;  the  docks  reminded  him 
of  a  visit  he  had  once  paid  to  Liverpool.  Grace 
Church,  then  almost  the  only  show  building,  was  not 
superior  to  any  of  the  modern  Gothic  churches  of 
English  provincial  towns.  The  Central  Park  was 
homely,  excessively  homely  at  the  end  of  a  hot,  dry 
summer.  The  main  road  running  west  of  it  became, 
two  or  three  miles  from  the  heart  of  New  York,  quite 
rough  and  countryfied.  Bronx  was  an  untidy,  scattered 
village  of  wooden  houses  in  half -despoiled  woods; 
where,  instead  of  hailing  the  ups  and  downs  as  you  do 
nowadays  for  really  picturesque  scenery,  you  cursed 
them  for  the  inconvenience  and  the  jolting  that  they 
caused,  for  you  had  to  drive  out  there  in  a  buggy. 

But  it  is  highly  unlikely  he  ever  saw  Bronx;  as  I 
fancy  the  Zoological  Gardens,  now  their  glory,  did  not 
exist  then.  Mervyn  and  Madison  spent  a  day  or  two 
in  New  York,  just  recovering  in  September  from  its 
frightful  summer  heat.  They  stayed  at  the  very 
respectable,  very  comfortable,  but  gaudily  furnished 


1885-1887  211 

house  of  the  Corness  family  in  Eighth  Avenue  over- 
looking the  north  end  of  Central  Park.  Here  they 
were  well  looked  after  by  the  caretakers,  a  negro  butler 
and  his  wife,  and  hence  they  sallied  out  to  inspect  the 
great  drug  store  of  Corness  and  Crabtree,  in  Washing- 
ton Square. 

They  passed  in  review  the  supplies  and  kinds  of 
drugs  belonging  to  Maddy's  father's  firm,  Maddy  him- 
self being  exceedingly  abrupt  and  critical,  Mervyn 
expressing  decided  opinions  in  a  politer  way  which 
obtained  for  him  the  friendship  of  the  patient  little 
German  manager. 

Somehow,  as  Mervyn  felt  such  young-man  friend- 
ship for  the  rather  cool,  cocksure,  candid  American,  the 
name  Madison  scarcely  lasted  between  them  longer  than 
a  fortnight ;  it  became  Mad  or  Maddy ;  and  as  this  was 
one  of  the  few  points  on  which  the  son  of  Dr.  Corness 
was  touchy,  Mervyn — with  the  intimation  that  his 
friend  might  call  him  "  Mer  "  or  "Vyn,"  and  any  dam' 
thing  he  pleased — reverted  to  the  surname.  "  Your 
country's  great,  immeasurably  great,"  he  said  on  the 
fourth  day  of  their  stay ;  "  but  somehow  it's  failed  in 
the  matter  of  names.  It  has  far  too  little  variety. 
If  I  was  your  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  or  what- 
ever you  call  him,  I'd  tax  just  a  few  names  to  prevent 
their  endless  repetition.  It  should  cost  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  to  give  any  one  or  anything  the  name 
of  Washington,  and  the  few  other  abused  surnames 
should  be  taxed  in  proportion."  But  Maddy  only  re- 
plied drily,  "  Say  so?"  so  Mervyn  dropped  the  sub- 
ject, and  henceforth  called  him  "  Corness  " — "  the  same 
as  our  English  name  Cornish,  I  suspect,  two  hundred 
years  ago  .  .  .  and,  by  the  bye,  old  chap,  if  you're 
sensitive  about  your  first  name — who  was  Madison,  if 
it  comes  to  that?  The  first  one,  I  mean?  " — (he  was 
given  a  history  of  the  name  and  ceased  to  jest  about 
it) — "  Sorry.  But  I'm  quite  at  your  mercy.  Dis- 


212  THE  VENEERINGS 

graceful !  No  American  history  taught  us  in  England. 
My  surname  is  an  ugly  corruption  of  Van  Eering — 
this,  by  the  bye,  I  saw  over  a  New  York  shop;  it's 
a  Dutch  name,  and  may  be  as  old  as  yours  in  New 
York  history.  It  came  originally  from  Holland  or 
Belgium." 

But  they  really  only  pretended  to  quarrel,  out  of 
light-heartedness.  Mervyn,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  been 
a  little  disenchanted  with  New  York,  which  in  those 
morally  distant  days  was  utterly  unlike  what  it  became 
in  the  opening  years  of  the  twentieth  century.  The 
highest  point  in  its  buildings  was  probably  the  spire 
of  Grace  Church,  not  even  as  elevated  as  the  cross 
of  St.  Paul's.  The  city,  then,  had  no  special  dis- 
tinction or  character,  though  the  food — he  noted — was 
"  scrumptious,"  far  superior  to  the  fare  of  London. 
But  as  they  left  in  the  train  for  the  Catskill  Mountains, 
where  the  summer  residence  of  Madison's  parents  was 
situated,  the  scenery  through  which  the  train  passed 
revived  his  interest  and  his  spirits.  The  line  crossed 
the  Hudson  at  Poughkeepsie,  and  made  its  way  to  the 
incongruously-named  station  of  Phoenicia.  Here,  at 
a  clean  little  inn,  they  slept  the  night,  because — in 
those  days — a  drive  to  and  through  the  Catskills  was 
best  undertaken  in  daylight. 

At  nine  the  next  morning  there  appeared  a  smart 
buggy  with  a  negro  coachman  from  the  Corness  house 
in  the  mountains.  The  coachman,  with  grins  of  de- 
light and  flowery  speeches  at  seeing  his  young  master 
back,  delivered  his  mother's  letter,  welcoming  the 
English  guest.  Phoenicia — in  those  days — was  too 
new,  too  monotonous  in  the  style  of  its  plank  houses, 
too  startlingly  out  of  touch  with  the  Stone  Age  scenery 
to  attract  an  Englishman's  eye,  other  than  politely; 
though  the  township  contained  some  very  good  stores 
with  food  supplies,  ready-made  clothes,  hardware,  and 
furniture. 


1885-1887  213 

But  then  ensued  a  round-about  ten  miles'  drive  south- 
west, along  the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  through  forests 
of  pines  and  firs,  oaks  and  chestnuts,  maples  and 
beeches.  Young  Corness  was  stoical,  though  his  eyes 
glistened  with  home  affection.  Mervyn  was  rapturous : 
"  Good  as  the  Pyrenees,"  he  exclaimed,  more  than  once. 
So  it  was  in  foreground  effect,  if  you  did  not  climb 
beyond  the  forests  and  look  for  snow  and  ice  which 
were  not  there.  But  the  mountain  sides  had  a  glory 
of  colouring  exceeding  anything  of  the  kind  in  Euro- 
pean autumn  landscapes.  The  herbage,  the  shrubs, 
and  deciduous  trees  blazed  with  yellow,  amber,  orange, 
scarlet,  crimson,  purple,  and  golden  green,  while  the 
firs  and  pines  and  yews  contrasted  with  their  blue- 
green,  black-green,  brown-green  and  full-green  masses, 
their  cool  grey,  pink-grey,  red-,  purple-,  and  brown- 
grey  stems  and  branches.  There  were  lavender 
Michaelmas  daisies,  a  lingering  spray  here  and  there  of 
golden  rod,  pink  flowers  that  seemed  to  be  rose  cam- 
pions. Mervyn,  the  botanist,  vied  in  enthusiasm  with 
Mervyn  the  colour-lover. 

He  was  almost  sorry — but  not  for  long — when  the 
buggy  drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  Corness's  summer 
home,  three  thousand  feet  above  sea-level,  with  twelve 
hundred  feet  of  Slide  Mountain  towering  above  them 
to  the  north-west.  The  look  of  enthusiasm  in  his 
brown-grey  eyes  melted  the  heart  of  Madison's  stern- 
faced  mother,  Mrs.  Corness.  Not  that  she  really  was 
stern;  a  kinder,  more  generous  soul  did  not  exist  in 
North  America.  But  she  had  lost  all  religious  faith  as 
a  young  girl,  and  gained,  in  return,  nothing  which 
quite  took  its  place.  The  glory  of  this  world  was  so 
keenly  appreciated,  she  loved  children  and  husband  so 
profoundly  that  she  was  not  content  with  a  probable 
life  of  seventy  years :  she  hungered  constantly  for  some 
indication  that  all  did  not  end  with  the  death  of  the 
body. 


214  THE  VENEERINGS 

Meantime,  in  her  earthly  phase,  she  looked  a  little 
prim ;  wore  pince-nez,  had  no  colour  in  her  thin  cheeks, 
though  perfectly  healthy.  She  was  dressed  in  advance 
of  the  fashions,  ten  years  in  advance,  by  instinct  and 
force  of  character.  Her  skirt  was  smooth  and  plain 
without  the  enlargement  of  a  crinolette;  she  added 
nothing  "  postiche  "  to  the  stock  of  hair  that  Nature 
had  left  on  her  head  at  the  age  of  forty-five;  conse- 
quently, her  head  seemed  a  little  lean  and  rather  old, 
though  her  eyes — if  only  the  pince-nez  were  off — were 
so  candid,  they  looked  quite  young. 

In  receiving  Mervyn  she  repressed  a  motherly  desire 
to  kiss  him,  just  shook  hands  with  a  sigh,  and  a  smile 
belying  the  sigh,  and  conducted  him  through  the  hall 
and  a  further  room,  out  on  to  the  verandah  from  which 
you  seemed  to  see  a  large  proportion  of  the  State  of 
New  York.  Here,  awaiting  the  return  of  the  only 
son  were  his  father,  Dr.  M.  J.  Corness,  arid  Madison's 
sisters,  Frederica  and  Melpomene.  Their  greeting  to 
Mervyn  was  so  completely  friendly  that  acquaintance 
started  at  once.  Mervyn's  glances  at  the  face  and 
hands  of  Dr.  Corness  showed  him  (who  was  an  initiate 
in  physiognomy)  that  here  was  a  scientific  expert  of 
immense  intelligence  who  could  also  be,  at  the  same 
time,  quite  human  and  humorous. 

Madison  quickly  joined  them;  they  cut  the  family 
joy  at  his  re-appearance  as  short  as  possible,  not  to 
embarrass  their  guest,  or  to  keep  the  two  boys  longer 
than  need  be  from  the  noon-tide  luncheon. 

So  to  luncheon  they  went,  in  the  large,  low-pitched, 
timber-lined  dining-room  behind  the  verandah,  and 
there  we  will  leave  them  eating  the  delicious  things 
you  were  given  even  in  those  days  in  the  civilised  parts 
of  North  America,  while  I  explain  a  little  more  about 
the  Corness  family. 

Dr.  Corness,  or  Professor  Corness,  as  he  was  some- 
times called,  was  of  English-American  stock,  related 


1885-1887  215 

to  the  Madisons,  Jays,  Hamiltons,  and  Pinckneys.  His 
father  had  been  a  religious  crank,  though  he  entered  on 
adult  life  with  a  comfortable  fortune.  He  was  alter- 
nately swayed  by  a  fierce  belief  in  the  immediate  second 
coming  of  Christ,  which  made  preparations  for  old  age 
and  family  up-bringing  scarcely  necessary;  and  a 
genius  for  invention,  but  not  such  as  might  bring  in 
a  substantial  fortune — just  handy  methods  of  making 
napkin  rings ;  suspending  towels,  and  obstructing  their 
passionate  longing  to  fall  on  the  floor;  adjusting  mos- 
quito nets;  or  disguising  in  boots  the  affliction  of  a 
club  foot.  He  had  a  family  of  seven  children;  and 
when  these  were  educated,  and  each  had  its  portion  of 
inheritance  allotted  after  the  father's  death,  his  eldest 
son,  the  professor  I  am  describing  (Professor  of  Chem- 
istry at  Columbia  University),  only  inherited  a  sum  of 
thirty  thousand  dollars — a  trivial  total,  then,  of  six 
thousand  pounds.  The  Lectureship  to  which  he  had 
attained  at  Columbia  University  brought  him  in  what 
we  should  estimate  at  six  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
So,  for  an  American  of  his  age,  passionately  eager  to 
explore  and  investigate,  he  was  a  poor  man. 

But  he  had  a  handsome  face  and  strong  physique; 
he  was  kind  in  nature  and  drily  witty,  and  Eudoxia 
Crabtree  fell  in  love  with  him  at  a  summer  school 
(or  something  of  the  kind)  at  Chattanooga,  in  the 
Blue  Mountains  of  Pennsylvania.  This  was  in  1859, 
and  they  were  married  in  January,  1860,  with  her 
father's  full  approval. 

Crabtree  was  tired  of  Eudoxia's  anti-slavery  Aunt, 
and  wanted  his  Philadelphia  house  free  henceforth  to 
himself  and  his  chosen  friends. 

Young  Corness  had  been  saddled  by  his  father  with 
the  disenchanted  names  of  Melchizedek  Joshua. 
Melchizedek,  it  is  true,  was  quite  an  old  family  name 
which  had  come  over  from  the  Puritan  England  of 
the  early  seventeenth  century  with  the  Cornesses,  and 


216  THE  VENEERINGS 

had  been  shared  in  use  by  their  kinsfolk  of  Jays, 
Pinckneys,  and  Hamiltons.  But  Joshua  was  further 
inflicted  in  some  obscure  adumbration  of  the  Second 
Coming. 

Mrs.  Corness,  who  had  discarded  Genesis  definitely 
when  she  was  eighteen,  compounded  with  this  crux  in 
her  husband's  names  by  calling  him  Em  jay.  She 
sighed  over  the  problem,  one  of  her  life's  lesser  un- 
happinesses,  but  Emjay  was  such  a  perfect  husband 
and  so  entirely  in  sympathy  with  her  lack  of  religious 
convictions  that  each  sigh  ended  in  a  little  smile.  The 
great  happiness  of  their  early  married  life,  when  Emjay 
was  founding  his  drug  house  with  his  father-in-law's 
capital,  was  interrupted  by  the  terrible  Civil  War. 
Crabtree  was  just  outside  the  age  limit,  for  which  he 
was  inwardly  thankful,  as  his  allegiance  was  quite 
divided  between  North  and  South — both  sections  being 
his  very  good  customers  for  his  sanitary  appliances 
— and  he  had  very  little  sympathy  with  the  negro 
because  that  race — he  contended — was  constitutionally 
insanitary. 

But  Dr.  Corness  was  very  strongly  on  the  side  of  the 
North,  so  he  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  join  up  as  a 
surgeon  or  in  some  medical  capacity.  He  was  slightly 
wounded,  in  1863,  in  Virginia,  and  put  then  into  some 
Reserve,  which  was  employed  looking  after  Southern 
prisoners.  So  his  married  life  was  not  seriously  inter- 
rupted, or  his  new  work  in  the  analysis  of  drug 
materials. 

Madison  had  been  born  in  1861,  before  the  war;  and 
the  daughters  followed  in  1864  and  1866.  A  fourth 
child,  born  in  1865,  died  in  infancy;  almost  the 
only  real  sorrow — so  far — in  Mrs.  Corness's  life,  and 
attributed  by  her  to  a  foolish  passing  interest  in 
homoeopathy. 

Old  Crabtree — his  full  name  was  Solomon  Campion 
Crabtree,  and  he  was  known  when  in  full  vigour  of 


1885-1887  217 

civic  life  as  Sol.  Crabtree — had  a  wonderful  turn  for 
mechanics,  and  was  earning  money  when  he  was  only 
seventeen.  He  had  a  passion  for  overruling  water, 
and  was  one  of  the.pioneers — in  America — of  modern 
sanitation.  If  I  told  you  in  simple  language,  even  now, 
in  what  department  of  the  house  he  specialised  in 
grappling  with  this  problem,  very  few  Britishers  and 
no  Americans  would  read  farther  in  this  story,  so 
extremely  silly  are  we  in  our  prudery.  But  there  you 
were,  in  the  United  States,  in  the  'sixties,  'seventies, 
and  'eighties :  you  could  not  avoid  typhoid  and  other 
unpleasantnesses  in  your  home — except  you  lived  in  a 
log  hut  in  the  backwoods — without  calling  to  your 
assistance  the  appliances  manufactured  by  Crabtree  at 
Philadelphia,  New  York,  Worcester,  and  Raleigh,  and 
applying  them  to  the  water-system  then  being  intro- 
duced into  great  American  cities.  The  Campion-Crab- 
tree  inventions,  they  were  generally  called. 

Still,  Mrs.  Corness  thought  it  right,  thought  it  deli- 
cate to  avoid  dwelling  overmuch  in  mind  or  speech  on 
the  sources  of  her  father's — and,  by  delegation,  her 
own — wealth.  Still  less,  after  she  was  married  and  out 
in  the  world  and  in  the  full  swing  of  Society  chatter, 
did  she  like  any  allusion,  even  in  jest,  to  her  father's 
relations  with  certain  ladies,  widows  chiefly,  who  had 
shared  much  of  his  life  through  the  three  decades  which 
had  followed  her  mother's  death. 

As  he  grew  older,  Campion  Crabtree — though  he 
chuckled  terribly,  dressed  extravagantly,  wore  an  eye- 
glass instead  of  spectacles,  out  of  devilment,  and  de- 
clared himself  to  be  much  wickeder  in  his  ways  than 
he  really  was — resolved  as  an  unacknowledged  atone- 
ment for  the  impropriety  of  his  fortune's  origin  to  put 
the  mass  of  his  money  into  a  drug  manufactory,  with 
his  son-in-law  to  manage  it.  He  was  enormously  rich, 
even  for  1880.  He  lived,  entertaining  his  widow 
friends  at  Philadelphia  in  spring  and  early  summer; 


2i8  THE  VENEERINGS 

in  the  pine  woods  of  the  Adirondacks  during  June  and 
August;  at  an  hotel  in  New  York  for  October;  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  year  at  an  old  Spanish  city  on  the 
coast  of  Florida:  when  he  was  not  on  his  steam  yacht 
visiting  the  Bahamas  and  Jamaica.  He  actually  came 
to  New  York  soon  after  Mervyn  arrived  in  the  Cat- 
skills.  So  Mervyn  was  taken  back  there  and  intro- 
duced; and  with  this  cynical,  dried-up,  elderly  man 
again  pursued  his  investigations  of  the  resources  and 
methods  in  vogue  at  the  Washington  Square  drug 
store. 

Old  Crabtree — he  was  then  (1885)  seventy-one,  but 
he  had  looked  old  after  he  was  forty,  and  did  not  look 
much  older  when  he  was  eighty — took  a  great  fancy  to 
Mervyn,  advised  him  to  cancel  his  English  engagements 
and  marry  Frederica;  and  after  that,  enter  his  firm. 
Rather  pettishly,  after  seeing  Hetty's  photograph,  he 
forbore  to  press  this  proposition,  but  approved  of  the 
other  plan  he  had  already  considered,  of  Madison's 
going  to  England  and  joining  Harmon,  Veneering  and 
Co.  in  partnership.  He  would  put  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  into  the  English  firm. 

"  We  want  community  and  interchange  of  interests. 
We'll  keep  the  two  firms  distinct,  one  for  the  New 
World  and  the  other  for  the  Old;  yet  we'll  combine 
our  policy.  When  we  can  join  the  continents  at 
Bering's  Straits,  as  we  may  be  able  to  do  some  day, 
we'll  think  of  fusing  the  two  companies.  But,  mean- 
time, we'll  try  to  cure  mankind  of  all  its  ills  by  sound 
medicines." 

Old  Crabtree  had  come  with  his  usual  rapidity  of 
decision  to  this  conclusion  regarding  his  grandson's 
career,  and  the  making  of  an  investment  of  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  in  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.,  to 
buy  him  a  partnership.  A  hundred  thousand  pounds — 
half  a  million  dollars — could  scarcely  be  altogether  lost 
in  the  English  drug  firm  of  Mincing  Lane,  with  Madi- 


1885-1887  219 

son  there  to  look  after  it.  ...  And  if  it  were,  well, 
it  was  only  the  fifteenth  part  of  his  private  capital, 
less  perhaps,  even,  than  that.  But  it  couldn't  be  lost 
unless  Madison  played  the  fool  completely. 

So  Mervyn  returned  from  the  United  States  in 
November,  1885,  immensely  impressed  with  what  he 
had  seen  and  learnt.  Madison,  particular  only  as  to 
the  full  pronunciation  of  his  forename,  joined  the  firm 
of  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.  as  a  partner,  in  April, 
1886,  bringing  a  contribution  of  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  with  him,  and  the  further  intention  of  exploit- 
ing the  territories  of  the  Old  World,  and  especially  of 
the  British  Empire,  for  vegetable  drugs  which  should 
cure  all  maladies  of  mind  and  body. 

Harmon  had  that  funny  prejudice  against  minerals. 
When  pressed  he  admitted  it  might  have  arisen  from 
the  work  the  Germans  had  done  in  mineral  drugs  and 
the  stubborn  determination  they  had  shown  in  no  way 
to  initiate  him  into  their  researches ;  also  that  mineral 
chemistry  had  never  interested  him,  only  the  chemistry 
of  living  things.  In  any  case,  the  vegetable  world  held 
such  unexplored  or  unexhausted  treasure  in  remedies 
and  stimulants,  disinfectants,  soporifics,  detergents, 
dyes,  carminatives,  and  cathartics.  Why  bother  about 
the  more  dangerous  and  incalculable  acids  and  alkalis 
derived  from  minerals  and  metals? 

Picture  Mervyn,  therefore — for  I  must  move  on  with 
long  strides — working  strenuously  in  London  from  his 
Villiers  Street  rooms,  fragrant  with  memories  of 
Miriam's  former  presence  there,  from  November,  1885, 
to  May,  1886.  Miriam,  after  all,  sometimes  took  tea 
with  him  and  Hetty  and  played  chaperon ;  or  they  ad- 
journed  to  her  theatre  to  get  a  glimpse  of  rehearsals 
and  discuss  new  ventures.  He  sometimes  looked  back 
on  this  as  the  jolliest  time  in  his  life. 

When  Madison  had  returned  to  London  to  take  up 


220  THE  VENEERINGS 

his  partnership  and  his  abode  there,  Mervyn  bestirred 
himself  to  find  attractive  rooms  with,  what  his  friend 
wanted,  an  "  old  world  "  flavour;  though  this  quality 
in  those  days  was  still  too  much  associated  with 
defective  drainage.  However,  they  discovered  rooms 
just  vacated  in  a  house  off  Adelphi  Terrace,  overlook- 
ing the  river,  third  floor,  and  above  the  sordidness  and 
dust  of  a  newspaper  office;  whence  the  dweller  could 
look  down  on  a  river,  mysterious,  tragic,  beautiful, 
historical,  on  plane  trees  and  lilacs,  the  new  Embank- 
ment, and  the  obstructed,  unfinished  approach  to 
Miriam's  new  theatre.  This  site  would  be  conveniently 
near  to  his  own  rooms  in  Villiers  Street ;  and  these  he 
hoped  would  last  out  the  remainder  of  his  bachelor- 
hood, and  not  be  swept  away  in  improvements  till 
after  his  marriage.  In  October,  1886,  Mervyn  took 
Madison  to  the  Gave  d'Aspe  to  undertake  a  thorough 
study  of  the  gardens  there,  and  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mons.  Faidherbe  and  the  Scottish  horticul- 
turist. This  was  no  longer  Mr.  Snaith,  who  had  been 
sent  on  to  Nipal,  but  one  who,  in  his  turn,  was  at  first 
as  raw,  as  un-French-speaking,  and  yet  as  shrewd  and 
determined  as  Snaith  had  always  been  .  .  .  young 
Ramsbotham.  From  this  succession  of  Scots,  Mons. 
Faidherbe,  the  genial  Marseillais, .  had  learnt  the 
strangest  English  you  ever  heard,  and  English  lady 
visitors  at  the  gardens  either  blushed  at  some  of  his 
expressions  or  looked  determinedly  at  the  distant  view 
of  the  plains  while  he  was  talking. 

Delicious  intervals  in  the  steady  and  sometimes 
heavy  work  in  Mincing  Lane  were  the  stays  of  a  week, 
a  fortnight  at  Chacely  with  Hetty  and  Elizabeth  to  help 
him  in  his  work,  his  note-taking  in  the  conservatories 
and  plantations.  Elizabeth  had  actually  learnt  short- 
hand, or  so  at  least  she  said,  though  no  one  but  herself 
could  decipher  her  script.  However,  she  took  down 
with  tolerable  accuracy  many  of  his  notes,  and  Hetty 


1885-1887  221 

was  becoming  a  very  good  photographer  by  the  new 
methods.  Helen  was  still  too  young  and  frolicsome 
to  be  included  in  the  working  parties,  but  was  good 
at  all  games.  She  was  an  especial  favourite  with 
Madison,  and  called  him  Maddy  and  Maddikins  un- 
rebuked,  being  regarded  as  a  child. 

Mervyn,  in  this  time  of  waiting  and  preparations, 
sometimes  spent  a  week-end  or  the  best  part  of  a  week 
at  Cambridge,  with  Mr.  Babington,  or  with  some  lag- 
gard student  sharing  his  tastes  in  biology;  or  he  even 
visited  Stitchcomb  at  Oxford,  to  find  out  what  Oxford 
was  doing  in  botany  and  chemistry.  He  spent  the 
Easter  of  1887  with  his  darling  Jeanne,  and  the  pre- 
ceding and  the  following  Christmases  with  his  father 
and  mother  at  the  Villa  les  Acacias.  Here  he  avoided 
discussions  as  much  as  possible  with  the  pietistic 
Lancelot,  who  now,  as  an  additional  irritant,  would 
only  talk  in  French.  Lance  had  become  vaguely 
jealous  of  his  handsome  and  much  too  popular  brother, 
and  was  arranging  to  become  a  French  subject,  having 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  England  and  English- 
speaking  countries  had  become  part  of  a  hostile 
Protestantism.  His  mother  was  now  a  dear  old  Early 
Victorian,  and,  with  a  vague  jealousy  of  the  country 
where  Mervyn  was  doing  so  well,  had  become  rather 
prouder  of  Lancelot,  the  model  pupil  of  a  Catholic 
College,  than  of  Mervyn,  who  seemed  to  be  what 
the  English  journals  and  reviews  were  calling  an 
"  agnostic." 

Father — thought  the  rather  disconcerted  Mervyn 
(home  was  no  longer  home  since  Jeanne  had  left  it) — 
poor  father  seemed  played  out — very  silent — paid  great 
attention  to  his  meals. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE 

IN  1886  Reggie  Harmon  had  come  of  age,  and  the 
ten  thousand  pounds  left  him  by  the  Boffins  was 
duly  handed  over  by  the  trustees,  John  Harmon  and 
Mortimer  Lightwood.  With  the  interest  on  this,  with 
his  father's  annual  allowance,  and  his  regimental  pay — 
a  mere  nothing — he  had  an  income  of  between  eleven 
and  twelve  hundred  pounds. 

"  I  will  also  allot  you  definitely  a  bedroom  and 
sitting-room  at  Wigmore  Street  as  your  London  head- 
quarters; and,,  of  course,  Chacely  is  always  your 
home,"  said  his  father.  "  But,  my  dear  lad,  I  don't 
want  any  more  sulks  and  frowns.  I  shall  begin  to 
think  we  ought  to  consult  a  doctor.  I'm  not  going  to 
argue  any  further  about  the  allowance.  My  decision 
in  that  respect  is  final ;  and,  as  I  have  told  you  several 
times  already,  until  my  death  you  will  get  no  more. 
When  I  die  you  will  receive,  like  John,  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds.  Prudently  invested,  that  ought  to  bring 
you  in  a  thousand  a  year;  so  that  if  you've  really  pro- 
gressed in  the  army  service  you  ought,  one  way  and 
another,  to  be  drawing  two  thousand  a  year  after 
I'm  gone.  It's  rather  late  to  change  careers,  now, 
but  if  you  choose  to  chuck  the  Guards  and  go  to  a 
University,  or,  at  any  rate,  cram  up  botany — or  chem- 
istry— or  horticulture — finance — glass-making — adver- 
tising— you  might  enter  our  firm  as  a  partner  and 
thereby  get  a  rather  larger  income  than  if  you  remained 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  223 

where  you  are.  With  your  good  looks — if  only  you 
wouldn't  be  always  frowning.  Hang  it  all!  Why 
sulk  perpetually  at  twenty-one?" 

"Well!  you'd  sulk  too  if  you  saw  your  father  in- 
fatuated with  a  bounder  that  was  no  relation,  and  yet 
inhabited  your  house  and  got  engaged  to  your  sister, 
and — and " 

His  anger  choked  him  and  blocked  his  argument. 

"  My  father,"  replied  Harmon,  "  your  grandfather, 
would  have  surprised  you,  Reggie.  I  wish  you  could 
have  had  a  taste  of  him.  Then  you  might  appreciate 
me  .  .  .  think  a  little  more  kindly  of  me  .  .  .  reflect 
before  you  use  phrases  that  wound  me.  That's  all. 
But  why  make  this  bad  blood?  Why  trouble  your 
mother's  life  with  these  perpetual  sulks  and  outbursts? 
Here !  I'll  tell  you  what !  Choose  some  shrewd  Q.C. 
and  submit  your  case  to  his  judgment.  Put  all  the 
facts  before  him — honestly — and  ask  him  what  he 
thinks  of  me.  Or,  if  you  like,  we'll  agree  upon  some 
common  arbiter.  .  .  .  Lightwood?  Lady  Feenix?  If 
she  could  be  bothered.  .  .  .  Lightwood's  very  shrewd 
and  knows  the  world.  Submit  your  case  to  Lightwood 
and  hear  his  opinion.  I  don't  say  I'm  going  to  change 
my  decision  on  any  advice,  but  if  Lightwood  can  show 
me  I'm  acting  unjustly  towards  you  I'd  look  further 
into  the  matter.  And  as  to  Veneering — Mervyn — 
though  I've  got  a  remarkably  sweet  temper,  I  must 
ask  you  to  use  better,  more  restrained  language  when 
you  speak  of  him  in  my  hearing.  I  don't  know  what 
the  new  word  '  bounder '  is  supposed  to  mean,  but 
from  the  way  you  utter  it  it  seems  something  offensive. 
All  I  have  to  say  in  reply  is  that  I  thoroughly  appreciate 
Veneering's  patience  and  good  temper,  his  ability  and 
his  powers  of  work,  and  /  am  very  glad  that  he  is  going 
to  marry  your  sister  and  become,  in  course  of  time, 
my  partner.  He  will  only  be  taking  up  his  father's 
work  and  his  father's  dormant  place  in  the  firm,  which 


224  THE  VENEERINGS 

is  still  '  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.' ;  and  as  neither 
you  nor  John  seem  willing  to  come  into  it " 

"  Veneering's  a  pretty  rotten  name,  any  way." 

"  So,  no  doubt,  in  some  hearings  is  Harmon.  Mer- 
vyn's  father  made  a  fool  of  himself  in  some  ways,  no 
doubt,  but  he  re-started  the  firm  on  such  new  and  bold 
lines  as  made  it  worth  my  while — financially — taking 
it  up.  It  has  now  grown  into  a  great,  a  world-wide 
business,  and  it  is  only  just  to  replace  a  Veneering  in 
its  partnership." 

"  It's  become  disgustingly  Americanised,  if  that's 
what  you  mean.  There's  this  chap  Corness  on  us 
now." 

"  Really,  Reggie !  I  think  yours  is  almost  a  case  for 
a  doctor!  You  must  be  suffering  from  some  bodily 
cause,  some  displacement  in  gymnastics— errors  in  diet 
— overwork  ?  " 

Reggie  got  up  and  left  the  room  noisily.  He  had 
come  to  see  his  father  at  the  City  office,  as  the  latter 
rose  too  early  in  the  mornings  for  home  intercourse 
with  a  Guards'  officer  ( in  those  days ) ,  and  came  home 
too  late  from  Parliamentary  work  to  talk  about  home 
affairs. 

His  father  smiled  at  his  manner  of  departure,  then 
the  smile  faded,  and  he  felt  sad.  But  time  was  short 
and  work  pressed  for  consideration.  He  resumed 
reading  a  report  from  Kew  on  the  bark  of  Robinia 
pseudacacia.  This  leguminous  tree  was  likely  to  be- 
come so  important  in  medicine  that  he  was  having  it 
cultivated  in  the  Pyrenees,  as  the  Veneerings'  acres  at 
Calais  were  limited;  though  it  was  Mrs.  Veneering  and 
Jeanne  who  had  helped  him  hitherto  with  his  material 
for  analysis. 

Presently  Mervyn  came  in  with  a  number  of  letters 
to  be  signed. 

"  Mervyn,  old  boy !  I'm  a  little  down-hearted  this 
morning.  Aglae  crassifolia,  from  which  we'd  hoped 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  225 

so  much  to  make  a  febrifuge,  turns  out,  on  analysis,  to 
be  a  fraud — I  suppose  it  was  some  other  plant  that  got 
mixed  up  with  it?  And  Reggie's  been  in  here,  as  he 
got  up  too  late  to  catch  me  at  breakfast.  ...  I  hope 
he  had  no  '  words  '  with  you  this  morning  ?  Kept  his 
temper?  " 

"  I  never  even  saw  him.  I'm  sorry  he  doesn't  ap- 
prove of  me.  But  I  can't  very  well  give  up  marrying 
his  sister  or  working  for  you  on  that  account." 

"Of  course  not !  Don't  suppose  such  ideas  ever 
entered  my  head.  But,  all  the  same,  both  my  sons 
disappoint  me.  I  did  think  one  of  them  would  have 
got  interested  in  this  business.  /  think  it's  thrilling. 
An  ass  came  up  to  me  the  other  day  at  the  House  and 
said,  'What?  Not  "Sir"  John  Harmon  yet?'  As 
though  it  could  gratify  me  in  the  least  being  a  knight 
or  a  baronet  and  having  to  plank  down  money  in  pay- 
ment thereof  to  some  mean  go-between  or  Government 
fund  or  office." 

"  Well :  but  in  compensation  you've  got  three  rattling 
good  daughters.  I'm  almost  in  love  with  all  three; 
they're  all  so  keen  on  our  pursuits  and  researches. 
Some  day — p'raps  in  your  daughters'  life-time — 
women  will  rank — I  mean  politically — as  high  as  men. 
And  then  you'll  have  five  voters  in  the  drug  business 
instead  of  two." 

"  I  dare  say.  Still,  about  those  two  boys.  I've  been 
asking  myself  whether  I  wasn't  to  blame  in  letting 
them  go  to  public  schools  only  famous  for  their  name. 
If,  instead,  I'd  sent  them  to  some  London  school  or 
college  of  more  modern  trend.  .  .  .  But  I've  no  time 
to  waste  this  morning  in  dismal  reflections.  Robinia 
pseudacacia  promises  great  things.  ...  If  Reggie  and 
John  are  disappointing,  the  three  girls  couldn't  be  better 
— the  darlings!  And  now  for  some  more  dictation, 
and  then  I  must  be  off." 


226  THE  VENEERINGS 

I  have  related  in  another  place  how  Bella  and  her 
husband  had  grown  to  know  the  Feenixes,  who  lived, 
when  they  were  at  home,  on  the  east  side  of  the  Severn, 
at  Deerhurst  Park.  Chacely  Priory  could  be  almost 
descried  from  Deerhurst,  and  the  steeple  of  Deerhurst's 
pre-Norman  church  was  visible  from  the  terrace  at 
Chacely;  but  a  journey  from  one  place  to  the  other  by 
any  land  conveyance  was  much  more  lengthy,  and  the 
nearest  bridge  crossing  the  broad  Severn  was  situated 
near  Tewkesbury. 

Lord  Feenix,  in  1887  and  afterwards,  was  Secretary 
of  State  for  the  Colonies.  John  and  Bella  had  dined 
with  him  and  Lady  Feenix  one  evening  in  the  Sep- 
tember of  that  year.  A  month  later,  Bella,  in  her 
anxiety  and  perplexity,  took  the  sudden  decision  of 
driving  alone  over  to  Deerhurst  to  see  if  Lady  Feenix 
was  at  home  and  might  be  consulted  with.  Although 
Reggie  used  his  room  at  the  Wimpole  Street  house, 
it  generally  was  when  his  parents  were  not  there.  He 
had  very  seldom  been  at  Chacely  in  1887,  and  when  he 
came  there,  spent  most  of  his  time  with  the  Feenixes. 

His  mother,  fortunately,  found  the  celebrated 
Suzanne  at  home  and  comparatively  alone  when  she 
called  soon  after  lunch  on  this  sunny  October  after- 
noon. There  were  providential  conditions  which  sel- 
dom occurred  conjointly.  It  was  a  Thursday:  one 
tiresome  batch  of  visitors  had  just  departed;  Lord 
Feenix  had  run  up  to  town;  a  succeeding  batch  of 
visitors  was  not  arriving  till  the  Friday  afternoon. 
Suzanne  Feenix,  who  was  developing  great  intuition 
as  she  grew  older  and  kinder,  divined  that  the  rather 
timid  Bella  had  nerved  herself  for  some  unusual  pur- 
pose, so  gave  her  an  early  tea  with  her  children,  then 
packed  these  young  persons  off  to  games  by  themselves, 
and  proposed  to  Bella  a  stroll  to  Deerhurst  Church. 

In  the  churchyard — and  wherever  on  the  way  it 
seemed  quiet  and  restful  and  there  was  anything  dry 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  227 

to  sit  on — they  sat  down;  and  Bella  unburdened  her- 
self of  her  anxieties  and  woes  concerning  Reggie. 

"  I  know  the  boy  better  than  you  seem  to  think,"  said 
Suzanne.  "  He  is  a  handsome  lad,  when  he  doesn't 
frown ;  and  quite  aware  of  his  good  looks.  My  dear, 
we  can't  all  be  chemists  and  botanists,  though  such  may 
seem  to  be  the  noblest  of  God's  creations.  I  really 
don't  know  what  to  say  ...  it  is  certainly  curious 
that  neither  of  your  boys  cares  for  his  father's  business. 
If  it  was  the  case  of  an  ordinary  chemist's  shop  in  a 
struggling  suburb  one  might  understand,  though  even 
there,  those  glorious  bottles  of  red  and  gold,  green  and 
blue — I've  even — in  Camber  well — seen  violet  ones — 
You  know  I've  been  dreadfully  associated  with  Cam- 
berwell — and  Clapham — just  as  you  must  have  been 
with  Holloway — I'm  not  in  the  least  ashamed.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  was  going  to  say,  even  in  the  dreariest  suburb 
there  is  a  glorious  colour  and  there  is  a  romantic  magic 
about  a  chemist's  shop — subtle  sugar  plums,  wistful 
scents,  strange  and  indelible  dyes.  But,  to  be  a  chemist 
like  your  husband,  like  his  firm :  why,  it  is  the  nearest 
approach  nowadays  to  being  the  wife — or  the  son — of 
a  Magician  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  They  did  marry, 
didn't  they? — I'm  going  one  day,  next  time  I'm  in 
France,  to  see  your  Pyrenees  gardens.  I'm  told  they're 
wonderful.  Lord  Wiltshire  was  speaking  of  them  the 
other  day,  and  said  the  French  Government  was  getting 
a  little  bit  jealous  and  restless. 

"  By  the  bye,  I  hope  your  girls  are  coming  to  our 
Harvest  Home  ?  It's  absurdly  late  this  year,  for  some 
reason  connected  with  our  vicar.  He's  been  on  a 
holiday.  .  .  .  And  that  other  good-looking  person  in 
your  entourage — whose  name  is  in  your  firm — Veneer- 
ing, of  course.  .  .  .  He  might  come  over,  too,  if  he 
hasn't  gone  abroad.  .  .  .  But  about  Reggie.  I  take 
a  sentimental  interest  in  him  because  he  thinks  me  beau- 
tiful and  doesn't  realise  .  .  .  fully  .  .  .  that  I'm  too 


228  THE  VENEERINGS 

old  for  flirtation.  .  .  .  Thirty-four!  .  .  .  What  are 
you,  by  the  bye  ?  " 

"Oh,  Lady  Feenix!  Don't  ask!  Terrible!  Forty- 
six!" 

"  Nonsense!  You  don't  look  it,  nearly.  But  what 
does  the  tale  of  our  years  matter?  It  is  the  things  we 
eat  and  drink,  the  troubles  our  relations  cause  us,  the 
investments  we  make  that  age  us.  Now  we  must  be 
turning  back,  because  my  husband  will  be  returning 
from  London.  The  evenings  are  getting  so  short. 
What  a  lovely  sunset!  Do  look:  though  it  somehow 
makes  one  feel  very  Wagnerian  and  sad.  You  and  I 
against  it  might  be  in  one  of  Fred  Walker's  pictures 
and  the  gazer  would  think  we'd  married  bigamously 
and  just  found  it  out.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  we  live 
here  in  the  very  nicest  part  of  England?  You  had 
better  tell  Reggie  to  come  over  and  see  me  one  day. 
Let  him  come  on  the  pretext  of  shooting  pheasants, 
and  then,  after  tea,  we  can  have  a  confidential  talk. 
.  .  .  Shall  we  go  direct  to  your  carriage?  I  expect 
the  man  is  back  on  the  box  after  his  tea.  .  .  .  You've 
got  everything  with  you  ?  And,  to  add  to  the  mystery 
and  in  case  we  run  into  Feenix,  you  could  drop  your 
veil,  and  I  wouldn't  tell  him  for  a  week  it  was  you." 

Reggie,  within  eight  days  of  this  call,  stayed  a  day 
or  two  with  the  Feenixes,  and  shot  pheasants  so 
creditably  that  Lord  Feenix,  when  his  wife  opened  up 
the  subject,  was — for  him — unusually  agreeable.  Reg- 
gie, he  decided,  should  be  seconded  for  service  in  South 
Africa.  .  .  .  Join  the  Governor-General's  staff  there 
as  an  A.D.C.  John  thanked  Bella  for  what  she  had 
done  and  praised  warmly  her  diplomatic  skill,  so  that 
she  cried :  cried  with  pleasure  at  his  praise,  cried  with 
a  little  pain  at  the  thought  of  not  seeing  her  eldest  boy 
for  a  year  or  two.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  out  there  h$  would 
see  some  nice  girl,  get  engaged,  and  leave  off  frowning 
or  inventing  grievances. 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  229 

Her  son,  John,  had  passed  his  "  little  go  "  at  Oxford 
in  the  Easter  Term,  1887.  He  had  rooms  at  "  Maud- 
len  " — as  it  is  still  preferred  to  pronounce  Magdalen — 
College,  and  enough  to  live  on  comfortably  with  his 
father's  annual  allowance  of  £500  and  a  legacy  of 
£200  a  year  bequeathed  to  him  by  Mrs.  Boffin.  Mrs. 
Boffin's  mind  had  begun  to  fail  a  little.  .  .  .  Elizabeth 
and  Helen  bitterly  remarked — after  John  was  born, 
and  she  had  completely  overlooked  the  claims  of  their 
father's  younger  children.  If  Reggie  was  fiercely 
selfish,  John  was  pleasantly  so.  He  had  no  objection 
to  Mervyn.  If  Mer  liked  to  be  so  damned  energetic 
and  waste  his  energies  on  the  commercial  side  of  drugs, 
why,  let  him  then  be  suitably  rewarded.  All  that  John 
asked  for  was  clean  and  well-aired  bedding,  a  suffi- 
ciency of  good  food,  a  well-equipped  inkstand  and 
writing-table,  quill  pens,  and  not  too  much  noise  out- 
side. He  would — Oxford  finished,  if  ever  Oxford  was 
finished,  but  Maudlen  just  suited  him — he  would  have 
liked  to  spend  the  rest  of  a  long  existence  in  a  moated 
grange  served  by  sixteenth-century  servants,  and  vis- 
ited by  seventeenth^century  guests,  and  with  nothing 
of  later  date  to  distract  his  thoughts. 

He  avoided  rough  games — yet  he  had  been  rather  a 
dab  at  them  at  Harrow,  to  avoid  persecution  and 
develop  his  body.  He  rewarded  his  mother's  full 
affection  by  a  whimsical  liking,  found  his  father  a  little 
primitive,  mid-nineteenth-century,  and  a  trifle  noisy. 
Oxford,  directly  he  saw  it — of  course,  not  including 
its  railway  suburbs,  which  were  deplorable — was  per- 
fect, and  Maudlen  the  most  perfect  part  of  Oxford. 
He  would  probably  pass  most  of  his  life  at  Oxford, 
he  thought  in  1887.  And  he  guessed  right.  He  would 
live  in  a  dream  and  was  content  to  leave  the  nightmare 
— London — and  all  other  places  to  brother,  father, 
friends  who  wanted  to  handle  more  money  than  was 
necessary  to  his  simple  enjoyments. 


230  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Lord !  "  would  exclaim  John  Harmon  the  elder  to 
his  wife,  after  hearing  a  few  such  remarks,  "  How- 
ever came  we  to  procreate  such  a  lad  ?  Our  girls  are 
much  more  like  us,  pretty  as  you  are,  eager  as  I  am. 
Our  eldest  boy's  a  surly  grenadier;  the  younger  is  an 
aged  philosopher  at  twenty !  " 

Reggie,  resolving  to  himself  that  he  could  not  stand 
the  sight  of  the  family  rejoicing  over  his  sister's 
marriage  to  a  fellow  who — he  considered — had  ousted 
him  from  his  birthright  (which  apparently  in  his 
opinion  was  the  right  to  spend  all  his  father's  money), 
had  made  haste  to  take  up  the  aide-de-camp-ship  which 
Lord  Feenix  had  obtained  for  him  in  South  Africa,  and 
was  preparing  to  hurry  out  there  before  the  Christmas 
of  1887.  Several  days  before  starting  he  had  found 
it  hard  to  keep  from  heartbreak,  even  from  tears ;  but 
temper  was  stronger  than  affection.  He  believed,  or 
affected  to  believe,  that  he  was  only  aiming  at  a  year's 
absence  in  South  Africa — "  bit  of  a  shoot "  at  game 
still  not  extinct,  sight  of  an  Empire  now  in  the  making. 
The  Governor  of  that  region  might  want  to  go  up  and 
meet  Lobengula,  and  take  him  too. 

His  father  encouraged  this  decision  (which  increased 
his  irritation).  John  Harmon  thought  every  young 
fellow,  before  he  took  up  his  life-work  at  home,  ought 
to  see  something  of  the  world,  and  Reggie  tried  to  keep 
his  upper  lip  from  trembling.  He  felt  he  had  never 
loved  his  mother  so  dearly  as  the  day  before  his  depar- 
ture— December  18;  so  he  kissed  her  passionately  on 
the  evening  of  the  day  before;  cried,  even,  only  she 
pretended  not  to  see  it;  was  on  the  very  brink  of  can- 
celling the  whole  adventure  and  trying  to  "  stick  it," 
in  regard  to  the  wedding;  and  put  up  with  the  advent 
of  Mervyn  as  a  new  brother:  only  a  surplusage  of 
pride  got  the  upper  hand.  That  night  he  pretexted 
the  need  for  an  earlier  train  to  London,  ordered  the  gig 
and  the  groom  for  eight,  scuffled  through  a  farewell 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  231 

with  her  in  her  bedroom,  with  a  bursting  heart  and  a 
promise  to  see  his  father  in  London — and  so  went, 
saying  good-bye  to  no  one  else. 

Bella,  as  she  dressed,  felt  this  was  not  a  sufficient 
leave-taking  with  an  eldest  son,  who  was  going  a 
voyage  of — what  was  it?  Seven  thousand  miles?  So 
she  dressed,  took  a  hurried  breakfast  and  caught  the 
next  train  to  London  three  hours  after  Reggie's.  They 
did  meet  at  Wigmore  Street,  to  her  infinite  relief.  Her 
husband  was  there.  He  laughed  away  her  fears ;  said 
"  good-byes "  were  beastly,  upset  every  one ;  that 
Reggie  had  shown  great  sense  in  avoiding  them,  except 
from  his  mother  and  father;  that  Reggie  was  quite 
right,  in  full  youth,  to  go  on  this  stimulating  adventure. 
Had  his  father  not  done  the  same?  Reggie  must  be 
sure  to  go  and  see  the  vineyards  round  Constantia 
where  his  father  had  worked.  He  had  made  up  for 
him  a  number  of  notes  as  to  other  places.  Above  all, 
he  was  to  remember  this:  that  if  he  disliked  South 
Africa  and  chose  to  come  back,  in  a  month,  in  six 
months,  they  would  be  delighted  to  have  him  back,  and 
to  see  him  taking  up  home  work  instead.  The  voyage 
— at  his  age — was  the  main  thing.  .  .  .  And  hang  it 
all!  On  inquiry  he  had  found  that  Reggie's  steamer 
finally  departed  from  English  shores  at  Plymouth. 
Why  shouldn't  he  and  mother  run  down  with  Redge  to 
Plymouth  and  see  him  off  from  there  ?  Thence,  by  a 
jolly  cross-country  journey  they  could  regain  Tewkes- 
bury  and  begin  their  Christmas  holidays  there  while 
Redge  was  revelling  in  the  scenery  and  flowers  of 
Madeira.  "  And  lay  this  to  heart,  Reggie,  boy :  if 
after  a  week,  a  month,  a  year — I  hardly  expect  you'll 
stay  more  than  a  year — you  think  better  of  this  scheme 
and  come  back,  we  shall  be  delighted.  I  think,  myself, 
your  career  lies  at  home,  but  before  you  settle  to  it, 
there's  nothing  like  seeing  a  bit  of  the  world." 

So  Reggie  Harmon  left  England  on  December  20, 


232  THE  VENEERINGS 

1887,  with  less  of  a  heart-break  than  he  might  have 
done,  had  he  been  the  son  of  a  less  wise,  less  kind- 
hearted  father;  who  had  known  such  pangs  of  heart 
himself  when  he  had  been  young  that  he  was  resolved 
to  save  his  children  from  them.  And  Bella,  though  sad 
in  mind  for  months  afterwards,  perhaps  in  a  way  for 
always  afterwards,  still  looked  on  her  eldest's  depar- 
ture into  the  great  ways  of  Life  with  more  resignation 
because  of  the  pleasant  seeing-off.  After  all,  her  boy 
was  a  soldier,  and  if  he  had  been  setting  out  for  war 
instead  of  a  post  in  a  Governor's  train,  they  might 
have  needed  to  feel  sorrowful  indeed.  Whereas 

Mrs.  Harmon,  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  one  of  the 
few  things  she  would  never  tell  John,  felt  a  little  stung 
by  the  popularity  of  Mervyn.  All  her  friends  arid 
acquaintances  took  with  great  calmness — scarcely  an 
inquiry,  no  wish  whatever  to  say  good-bye — the  depar- 
ture of  Reggie  for  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  an 
indeterminate  stay  there;  whereas  the  approaching 
marriage  of  Mervyn  excited  the  greatest  interest, 
though  he  had  only  been  within  the  acquaintance  of 
most  people  for  the  last  seven,  six,  five  years.  Directly 
it  was  made  known  that  he  was  to  marry  her  eldest 
daughter  on  or  about  New  Year's  Day,  eighteen  eighty- 
eight,  all  sorts  of  people  had  announced  their  desire 
or  their  intention  of  being  present.  Where  was  the 
marriage  to  take  place  ?  In  London  ?  In  the  country  ? 
At  Chacely?  "  Yes,  at  Chacely,"  she  had  to  reply,  and 
in  most  cases  to  add:  "  Would  you  like  to  be  there? 
Would  you  care  to  stay  with  us  ?  " 

Lady  Feenix,  who  had  been  so  unforgettably  kind 
about  Reggie,  was  equally  kind — perhaps  a  little  more 
so — about  Mervyn.  Lord  Feenix,  out  of  regard  for 
John  Harmon,  whom  he  dimly  perceived  to  be  a  man 
with  ideas,  not  on  any  account  to  be  snubbed,  and 
nearly  as  rich  as  he  was,  had  been  really  decent  about 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  233 

Reggie;  but  he  was  equally  and  unusually  nice  over 
Mervyn's  marriage.  Reggie  had  wanted  very  little  at 
Lord  Feenix's  hands — Suzanne,  indeed,  had  done  most 
of  the  writing,  and  a  clerk  at  the  Colonial  Office  the 
remainder.  But  Mervyn  wanted  absolutely  nothing 
and  was  damned  pleasant  about  it.  He  spoke  French  to 
perfection,  and  both  Feenix  and  his  lady  did  nearly 
the  same ;  he  was  good-looking  and  travelled,  could  tell 
very  amusing  stories,  rode  well,  shot  fairly,  though  he 
did  not  care  about  it,  was  a  great  favourite  with  the 
women  and  with  Lord  Feenix's  children,  had  done  not 
so  badly  at  a  conventional  university,  an  old  and  known 
university,  not  any  of  these  nineteenth-century  things 
that  inspired  no  respect.  .  .  .  His  father,  in  the  'sixties, 
had  been  rather  a  rip,  people  said — retired  ministers 
and  gouty  ambassadors — who  had  heard  of  him  abroad. 
But,  hang  it  all,  he  had  paid  up  in  the  end,  and  as  to 
the  name:  that  they  said  was  a  Flemish  one,  misspelt 
since  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  girl's  father,  after  all,  was  the  M.P.  for  Feenix's 
town,  Tewkesbury.  A  Liberal,  worse  luck !  but  more 
or  less  an  Imperialist,  and  with  £300,000  to  his  name, 
they  said.  Feenix  decided  to  be  as  nearly  sunny  over 
the  business  as  was  possible  with  his  nature.  He 
acquiesced  in  Suzanne's  idea  of  asking  Mervyn  to  stay 
at  Deerhurst  prior  to  his  marriage,  and  she  extended 
her  cordial  hospitality  to  such  other  of  the  Harmons' 
guests  as  could  not  comfortably  be  put  up  at  Chacely. 

So,  a  day  or  two  before  Christmas,  there  arrived 
Madame  de  Lamelle  and  Georgy  Podsnap  from  the 
Pyrenees;  Miriam  Clements  from  the  Embankment 
Theatre — who  had  foreseen  this  emergency  and  ar- 
ranged her  theatrical  plans  to  give  herself  and  company 
ten  days'  holiday  this  particular  Christmastide ;  Jeanne 
and  Gaston  Dudeffrand,  whom  Suzanne  insisted  on 
carrying  off — their  French  would  be  so  good  for  the 
children,  and  Jeanne  was  quite  one  of  the  handsomest 


234  THE  VENEERINGS 

women  she  had  ever  seen,  and  Gaston's  indescribable 
charm  made  her  head  reel;  and  the  Thiselton  Dyers 
from  Kew — yes,  she  would  have  them  too,  they  might 
arouse  some  interest  in  botany  in  her  callous  children, 
besides,  Feenix  wanted  to  see  them  seriously  about  a 
Government  measure  affecting  Kew;  and  Babington 
and  Judson  from  Cambridge:  Suzanne  would  have 
them  as  well,  dear,  placid  things.  Feenix  and  she  were 
going  in  strongly  for  science  now,  and  their  arrival 
would  be  providential,  because  she  had  a  great  many 
questions  to  ask  about  our  colonies  and  how  they  might 
be  developed. 

Madison  Corness  was  at  once  convoked  to  Chacely. 
All  this  apportionment  went  on  at  the  Tewkesbury 
railway  station  between  the  Harmons  and  Lady  Feenix, 
to  the  great  amusement  of  the  porters  and  the  station- 
master,  and  the  slight  annoyance  of  such  poor  pas- 
senger creatures  halted  there  and  not  connected  with 
either  party  or  its  friends. 

Aunt  Izzy ;  the  rather  bewildered  and  silenced  Lavvy 
and  George  Sampson ;  Mrs.  Veneering — actually  Mrs. 
Veneering! — quite  a  stranger  to  England,  and  feeling 
in  her  shyness  more  Early  Victorian  than  ever;  and 
Mortimer  Lightwood  were  naturally  marked  down — as 
John  Harmon  said — as  the  prey  of  Chacely,  and  were 
quickly  bundled  into  hired  or  owned  vehicles  and  sent 
off  Chacelywards. 

In  addition  to  the  other  two  hosts,  there  had  arrived 
at  the  station  the  genial  Frank  Milvey,  Vicar  of 
Chacely,  who  was  in  due  course  to  perform  the  mar- 
riage ceremony,  and  had  turned  up  to  proffer  hospitality 
to  two  guests,  at  least,  for  whom  at  Deerhurst  or  at  the 
Priory  there  might  be  no  room.  I  dare  say  the  Milveys 
gave  delightful  hospitality  to  one  or  two  or  three  of  the 
wedding  guests,  but  I  have  no  special  note  on  the  sub- 
ject. [The  Vicar  of  Chacely,  needless  to  say,  had 
been,  since  1875,  the  Revd.  Frank  Milvey,  now  Canon 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  235 

Milvey,  of  Worcester  Cathedral.  When  John  Har- 
mon had  acquired  the  patronage  of  Chacely  Church, 
he  had  sought  out  this  over-worked  philanthropist  and 
persuaded  him  and  his  wife  to  retire  to  the  calm 
beauty,  and  rustic,  Saxon  heathenry  of  Chacely.  He 
was  subsequently  made  one  of  the  Canons  of  Worces- 
ter, rode  a  tricycle  from  the  early  'eighties;  and  from 
the  sheer  happiness  of  his  life,  when  his  children  were 
out  in  the  world,  and  his  indefatigable  wife  had  once 
more  grown  plump  and  rosy,  had  regained  his  health, 
lost  his  cough,  and  become  intensely  interested  in  the 
pre-Norman  architecture  of  Chacely  Church  and  the 
edible  fungi  of  Gloucestershire.  Consequently,  he  had 
had  all  his  religious  views  broadened  and  sweetened.] 

Mme.  de  Lamelle,  disliking  crowds  and  clusters,  and 
Georgy  Podsnap,  who  disliked  or  liked  everything 
pretty  much  as  her  friend  did,  had  arrived  the  day 
before  Christmas  Eve,  and  were  already  installed  at 
Chacely.  Miriam  Clements  also  had  forestalled  the 
larger  party;  and  another  early  arrival  was  Mrs. 
Eugene  Wrayburn. 

Lizzie  Wrayburn,  as  John  Harmon  still  called  her, 
was  a  great  friend  of  Bella's  and  was  godmother  to 
Bella's  daughter,  Elizabeth,  at  this  time  a  girl  of  eight- 
een. Her  husband,  Eugene,  whose  life  she  had  once 
saved  from  the  brutal  attack  of  a  love-sick  man,  madly 
in  love  with  Lizzie  herself,  had,  by  the  death  of  brothers 
and  father,  become  a  squire  over  many  acres  in  Hamp- 
shire. But  in  later  middle  age  he  had  reverted  to  in- 
validism  and  seldom  left  his  Hampshire  home.  Nor 
did  his  wife  often  pass  from  his  side.  But  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Harmons'  eldest  daughter  seemed  to  be  an 
occasion  when  she  must  leave  husband  and  children 
to  look  after  themselves  for  a  few  days  and  place  her- 
self by  the  side  of  her  friend  when  her  eldest  daugh- 
ter was  going  to  be  married.  Elizabeth  Wrayburn 
still  remained,  after  twenty-four  years  of  married  life, 


236  THE  VENEERINGS 

singularly  handsome ;  but  circumstances  had  given  her 
mind  a  strongly  religious  turn,  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  the  thoughts,  interests,  and  speculations  of  the 
generation  growing  up  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century;  at  any  rate,  it  was  not  in  harmony  with  the 
meditations  and  mental  trend  of  Elizabeth  Harmon, 
who  generally  said  "  Oh,  bother! "  when  told  that  her 
godmother  was  coming,  or  had  written  expressing^  a 
wish  that  Elizabeth  should  visit  her  in  Hampshire. 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  geology,  mother,"  Eliza- 
beth would  say,  "  and  her  botany  does  not  carry  her 
beyond  pressing  picturesque  ferns  and  English  wild 
flowers.  She  looked  quite  shocked  the  other  day,  when 
I  told  her  at  Kew  how  very  limited  our  native  flora  had 
been  since  the  last  of  the  Glacial  Ages.  She  said  she 
had  never  heard  of  the  Glacial  Ages  before;  there 
was  nothing  about  them  in  the  Old  Testament." 

However,  the  occasion  of  Hetty's  marriage  was  so 
noteworthy  and  Bella  was  so  anxious  every  one  should 
be  happy  over  it,  that  Elizabeth  unearthed  from  a 
drawer  of  curiosities  a  large,  expensively  bound  volume 
of  Church  Services,  with  a  gilt  lock  and  key  and  maps 
of  Palestine  in  all  ages,  and  lists  of  the  fauna  and 
flora  of  Palestine,  and  took  it  to  church  with  her  on 
Christmas  Day. 

Besides  these  guests  of  the  first  class,  there  were  the 
scarcely  less  important,  excited,  affectionate,  and  well- 
provided  guests  of  the  serving  and  cooking  depart- 
ments. The  first  housemaid's  brother  was  allowed  to 
come  and  stay  in  one  of  the  gardeners'  cottages  to 
assist  in  the  waiting  and  because  he  was  engaged  to 
the  second  housemaid,  or  the  between-maid.  Two  por- 
ters from  Mincing  Lane  and  one  of  the  clerks  pro- 
fessed to  have  rendered  special  service  to  Mr.  Mervyn, 
and  were  surreptitiously  asked  down  by  Mrs.  Harmon 
to  help  wait  or  cook  or  something.  And  at  the  head 
of  the  household,  inspiring  respect  in  the  very  cook 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  237 

herself — otherwise  despotic  mistress  over  kitchen, 
scullery,  and  servants'  hall — were  Mr.  Slopey,  the  great 
hall  porter  of  Mincing  Lane  and  his  frail  little  wife 
Fanny,  once  known  in  the  'sixties  as  "  the  Dolls'  Dress- 
maker." 

Slopey  had  married  Fanny  Cleaver  in  1865.  She 
was  something  of  a  cripple  then,  but,  through  Har- 
mon's intercession,  surgery  of  dawning  cleverness  had 
done  much  to  remedy  her  lameness.  She  still  used  a 
stick  and  hobbled  a  little,  like  a  witch  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  but  more  for  the  impressiveness  this  gait  lent 
to  her  cryptic  sentences.  She  had,  in  1866  and  '68, 
produced  two  healthy  boys.  One  of  them  was  second 
footman  at  Chacely  (or  in  London)  and  the  other  a 
junior  parcels'  clerk  in  Mincing  Lane.  Fanny  still  had 
a  cutting  tongue  and  the  servants  trembled  a  little  at 
her  visits.  But  she  did  not  come  often  to  Chacely,  and 
when  she  did  she  was  treated  with  great  distinction, 
especially  as  she  was  on  the  borderland  between  up- 
and  down-stairs ;  would  go  in  some  morning  for  a  pri- 
vate conference  with  Mrs.  Harmon,  and  frequently  sat 
with  Mrs.  Wrayburn  in  her  bedroom  or  hobbled  with 
her  up  and  down  the  terrace  walk. 

Her  abundant  hair,  still  golden  with  scarcely  a  thread 
of  grey,  since  her  marriage  had  been  "  done  up,"  which 
made  her  appear  much  more  ordinary  save  for  her 
sharp  grey  eyes.  But  she  had  grown  plumper  and  a 
little  taller  than  in  pre-marriage  days,  owing  to  better 
food,  more  rest,  and  a  great  increase  in  happiness. 
Nowadays  she  never  dressed  dolls,  save  for  making  a 
present  of  great  distinction  or  for  the  assistance  of 
Mrs.  Harmon  at  a  bazaar ;  but  the  three  Harmon  gjrls 
had  preserved  dolls  dressed  for  them  in  the  'seventies, 
and  had  shown  them  at  the  offices  of  Truth  as  the  work 
of  "  Jenny  Wren." 

Mervyn  came  to  the  morning  service  on  Christmas 
Day,  to  sit  with  Hetty  and  the  other  girls,  and  their 


238  THE  VENEERINGS 

mother  .  .  .  and  on  this  occasion  their  father  (willing 
for  once  to  give  the  Almighty  the  benefit  of  the  doubt) 
and  a  few  others  of  the  house-party  were  likewise  pres- 
ent, and  stayed  on  after  the  service  was  over  to  shake 
hands  with  the  vicar  and  vicaress,  and  with  their  eldest 
son,  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy.  Mervyn  was  to  be  absent 
from  Suzanne's  watch  and  ward  till  he  returned  to 
dinner.  [The  night  drive  from  Chacely  to  Deerhurst, 
via  Tewkesbury,  was  a  lengthy  adventure  then  in  win- 
ter darkness.  Every  day,  however,  between  Christmas 
and  the  wedding  Mervyn  came  and  went  between  the 
two  places.] 

The  weather  was  much  too  mild  for  ice  and  skating 
.  .  .  almost  spring-like  .  .  .  but  time  hung  on  no  one's 
hands.  For  the  Cambridge  professors — and  even  Lord 
Feenix — the  greenhouses  and  nurseries  at  Chacely  were 
worth  a  good  deal  of  study  and  inspection.  The  less 
giddy  of  the  other  guests  felt  slightly  interested  in 
strange  blooms,  in  untimely  fruits,  in  bristly  plants  in- 
dicated as  "  poisonous,"  in  strongly-smelling  leaves, 
tear-provoking  pollen,  scented  barks,  and  incredible 
seed-vessels.  Others  played  wild  croquet  on  lawns  that 
were  not  too  sodden  or  rough;  or  tennis;  or  a  little 
football  on  the  cricket  ground ;  or  were  driven,  in  long 
mornings  or  early  afternoons,  to  famous  houses,  towns 
like  Tewkesbury,  or  points  of  view.  Chacely  Church 
was  explained  by  Canon  Milvey  ..."  such  a  good 
sort,"  they  all  agreed;  "  it  was  quite  a  pleasure  to  spend 
the  afternoon  with  him  and  Mrs.  Milvey."  Suzanne 
had  them  all  over  in  turns  and  parties  to  Deerhurst 
Park;  and  pre-Norman  Deerhurst  Church  was  one  of 
the  sights  of  England.  The  weather  being  so  mild,  a 
steam-launch  took  the  tougher  and  more  adventurous 
up  and  down  the  lordly  Severn.  The  exceptional 
weather  seemed  to  have  been  commanded  by  John  and 
Bella  for  the  special  gratification  of  their  guests.  "  If 
only  all  English  winters  were  like  this!  .  .  ."  they 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  239 

nearly  all  of  them  said,  with  monotonous  good  spirits. 
Someone  found  ...  or  said  he  had  found — ripe  wild 
strawberries  ...  a  spray  of  crab  blossom,  or  wild 
cherry  bloom  ...  a  nest  with  four  eggs  in  it  ... 
and  would  write  to  the  Times.  Why  did  people  want 
to  winter  on  the  Riviera,  if  England,  the  west  of  Eng- 
land, was  like  this  (which  it  only  is  once  in  ten  years)  ? 

So  much  for  the  occupation  of  the  daylight  between 
eight  a.m.  and  four  p.m.  Between  four-thirty  and  six, 
in  all  three  houses  of  entertainment,  there  was  after- 
noon tea,  one  of  the  most  beneficent  institutions  which 
ever  descended  on  England.  ...  [In  the  'seventies, 
they  say ;  apart  from  the  vague  tea  and  cake  of  dowager 
marchionesses  which  grew  into  an  institution  a  few 
years  earlier.] 

Then  there  was  a  lull  between  six  and  seven,  in  which 
the  elderly  stole  a  nap  .  .  .  perchance  .  .  .  over  a 
book  .  .  .  and  the  young  gossipped  and  whispered  and 
flirted  and  tried  on  new  dresses. 

Then  dinner — half -past  seven,  to  leave  time  for  the 
fun  afterwards.  Generally  the  party  which  was  as- 
sembled for  dinner  either  at  Chacely  or  Deerhurst  opted 
for  games  of  all  kinds  afterwards.  Even  Lord  Feenix 
subdued  his  chilly  dignity  to  participate  in  musical 
chairs;  and  Hubert  Parry  from  Highnam  played  the 
music.  But  twice  in  the  nine  days  before  New  Year's 
Day  the  Feenixes  brought  over  all  their  guests  and 
most  of  their  children  to  Chacely,  to  a  colossal — almost 
picnic — dinner.  It  was  an  idea  of  Suzanne's  .  .  . 
many  small  and  less  small  round  tables,  all  sorts  of 
seats;  volunteer  carvers  told  off  to  help  the  servants 
under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Slopey  and  the  Chacely 
butler.  The  carvers  were  allowed  to  resume  their  seats 
after  the  turkeys  had  been  cut  up  and  served. 

And  after  dinner — not  too  soon  after,  so  that  you 
could  revel  in  dessert  and  good  wine  and  cigarettes  and 
cigars — on  two  special  occasions,  Miriam  had  arranged 


240  THE  VENEERINGS 

theatricals  ...  oh!  but  serious.  Mervyn  played,  so 
did  Hetty  and  Elizabeth,  and  Lady  Feenix,  Madison 
Corness,  John  Harmon  junior,  and  Aunt  Izzy;  Jeanne 
and  Gaston  Dudeffrand.  Miriam  insisted  on  being 
stage  manageress,  promptress,  and  costumiere.  The 
piece,  written  by  John  junior,  or,  at  any  rate,  put  to- 
gether by  him,  was  of  a  most  fantastic  nature,  in  four 
acts;  and  the  first  two  were  given  on  Friday  and  the 
two  last  on  Tuesday.  All  the  household  and  the 
gardeners,  the  churchwardens  and  local  farmers  were 
invited  to  join  the  audience.  The  Chacely  household 
applauded  uproariously,  but  the  farmers  and  church- 
wardens were  a  little  shocked  and  mystified. 

The  fact  was  that  John  junior  was  already  rather 
cynical.  Mrs.  Wrayburn,  on  the  plea  of  a  slight  head- 
ache, had  quietly  withdrawn  from  the  last  act  because 
it  depicted  the  marriage  of  a  deceased  wife's  sister ;  but 
the  rest  of  the  audience — even  the  vicar — was  so 
wrapped  up  in  the  search  for  the  hidden  meaning  in 
this  strange  issue,  and  yet  so  much  inclined  to  laugh 
even  when  the  play  promised  to  be  most  serious,  that 
her  withdrawal  was  scarcely  observed. 

At  last,  at  the  end  of  these  nine  days,  the  First  of 
January,  1888,  dawned  about  eight  o'clock,  and  Hetty 
partook  in  her  petticoats  of  a  hurried  breakfast.  The 
wedding  was  to  take  place  at  noon,  but  brides  in  those 
days  dressed  for  their  weddings  with  really  serious 
deliberation,  and  worries  and  anxieties  about  the  wed- 
ding dress  not  fitting  or  the  bridesmaids  having  colds 
dismissed  from  their  minds  all  other  thoughts. 

Mervyn  had  left  Deerhurst  after  a  hurried,  scarcely- 
eaten  breakfast  at  8  a.m.,  and  had  looked  so  boyishly 
distraught  that  Suzanne,  before  sending  him  off  in  the 
brougham — because  of  his  wedding  attire — had  kissed 
him,  and  so  had  her  eldest  daughter.  He  first  pro- 
ceeded to  Chacely  Priory,  to  satisfy  himself  on  all 
points,  but  was  not  allowed  to  see  his  bride  because 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  241 

she  was  on  the  verge  of  hysteria  through  the  bodice 
catching  her  up  under  the  arms.  He  satisfied  John 
Harmon,  however,  that  he  had  got  the  ring,  and  then 
was  driven  round  to  the  Vicarage,  because  of  his  patent 
leather  boots ;  and  harboured  there  till  the  moment  came 
for  self -secretion  in  the  church  vestry. 

However,  under  January  sunshine  and  a  pale  blue 
sky,  a  premature  and  false  suggestion  of  spring  in  the 
hedges,  the  ceremony  went  off  all  right.  Mervyn  found 
the  ring  at  the  critical  moment  in  his  left-hand  trouser 
pocket.  His  best  man,  Madison  Corness,  showed  a  real 
capacity  for  business  and  an  unexpected  boldness  in 
delegated  kissing — all  sorts  of  people,  from  aged 
women  to  bouncing  girls. 

Hetty  forgot  that  the  sumptuous  satin  pinched  her 
underneath  the  arms.  Bella  cried  a  little,  more  in  re- 
membrance of  the  absent  Reggie  and  of  the  pious  fraud 
she  had  perpetrated  in  purchasing  a  splendid  sealskin 
coat  and  presenting  it  in  his  name.  Aunt  Izzy  cried 
at  the  thought  that  she  had  never  been  a  bride.  Miriam 
whisked  away  a  tear  or  two  and  carefully  dabbed  the 
moistened  cheek  at  the  remembrance  of  her  own  dis- 
appointment and  the  thought  that  she  was  now  nearly 
forty,  though  young  for  a  principal  lady.  Jeanne  and 
Gaston  pressed  each  other's  hands,  in  remembrance  of 
their  own  marriage  ceremony.  Mrs.  Wrayburn  prayed 
that  Eugene  might  recover  completely  from  his  eczema. 
Suzanne  wished  that  her  John  would  look  a  little  more 
genial :  his  stiffness  was  largely  put  on  to  repel  inter- 
course with  the  unauthorised. 

John  Harmon  senior  noticed  how  grey  the  vicar  was 
getting,  and  wondered  if  he  showed  similar  signs  of 
age.  And  most  of  the  young  people  thought  how  dif- 
ferently they  would  arrange  their  own  weddings  and 
wedding  costumes. 

And  Mr.  Parry  played  the  "  Mendelssohn  Wedding 
March  "  as  it  had  never  been  played  before  on  the 


242  THE  VENEERINGS 

organ  of  John  Harmon's  presentation,  which  he  had 
been  asked  to  select;  and  as  it  might  never  be  played 
again,  for  he  himself  subsequently  disapproved  of  that 
composer,  and  no  one  was  likely  to  come  to  Chacely 
with  more  conservative  views  who  could  master  the 
organ  as  he  did.  And  quite  a  number  of  people  cried. 
They  didn't  know  why,  probably  the  unusual  beauty  of 
the  music.  And  many  laughed  when  it  was  all  over; 
and  the  villagers  and  farm- folk  and  gardeners  uproari- 
ously acclaimed  and  hurrayed;  and  confetti  were 
thrown — real  sugar  plums — so  that  the  village  children 
nearly  died  with  joy  or  stomachic  disorder. 

And  the  breakfast  that  followed  beat  all  records  be- 
fore or  since,  at  any  rate  within  the  two  bordering 
counties.  And  Hetty  and  Mervyn,  dressed  as  1888 
tourists  (but  quite  becomingly;  Hetty  never  having 
approved  of  the  monstrous  crinolette  development), 
started  in  the  afternoon  for  a  London  hotel,  and  next 
day  for  the  Balearic  Islands. 

Mervyn,  which  was  why  he  was  bearable  in  good 
fortune,  mixed  most  of  his  sentiment  and  full-hearted- 
ness  with  practicality.  He  had  heard  recently  of  the 
wonderful  climate,  the  adaptability  to  all  drug-produc- 
ing flora  of  the  Balearic  Islands.  Why  not  go  there 
first,  and  wind  up  the  wedding  tour  with  a  few  days 
in  the  Pyrenees,  on  and  about  the  Gave  d'Aspe  gar- 
dens, and  a  look-in  at  Mme.  de  Lamelle  at  Pau? 

So,  on  January  2,  1888,  they  made  their  way  in  a 
dream  of  unreasoning  happiness  to  Paris,  before  the 
bad  weather  came  on  in  later  January ;  then  from  Paris 
to  Marseille  (why  give  it  an  unnecessary  .y?) — to  Mar- 
seille, which  was  strangely  thrilling  in  its  commerce 
with  Africa  and  the  East.  Marseille  to  Barcelona — a 
delightful  sea- journey — and  Barcelona  to  Palma,  the 
capital  of  Majorca  .  .  .  and  a  stay  at  Soller — roses 
and  jonquils — rides  up  to  the  summit  of  El  Puig 


MERVYN'S  MARRIAGE  243 

Mayor — with  all  the  island  spread  beneath  them,  and 
the  encircling  Mediterranean.  Explorations  of  its 
caverns  and  bone  deposits — glimpses  perhaps  of  its 
vanished  fauna,  showing  what  the  Baleares  were  like 
when  still  united  with  Spain — their  strange  gazelles, 
with  enormous  lower  incisors  for  root-grubbing.  In- 
vestigations of  the  flora  and  its  drug-yielding  capabili- 
ties. A  survey  of  its  delightful  people,  whose  Pro- 
vengal  language  has  remained  unaltered  since  the  times 
of  the  Troubadours,  and  has  escaped  the  degradation 
of  the  kindred  dialects  in  France. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HETTY  VENEERING 

La  Pepiniere, 
Gave  d'Aspe,  pres  Lurbe, 
Basses-Pyrenees. 

February  20,  1888. 
DEAREST  LIZZIE, — 

ELIZABETH  is  such  a  long  name  to  write  and  say 
.  .  .  "Beth"  is  so  misleading.  I  know  you  dislike 
"Lizzie"  nowadays!  If  you  really  wish  me  to  go 
back  to  "  Elizabeth  "  I  will  do  so;  but  while  I  am  on 
my  honeymoon,  let  it  be  "  Lizzie."  Afterwards  it 
shall  be  Elizabeth,  or  if  I  am  ill  or  tired,  "  dearest  E." 

I  am  neither  ill  nor  tired,  but  still  enjoying  myself 
enormously.  Majorca  was  too  delightful.  Our  month 
there  was  the  happiest  time  I  have  ever  known.  Not 
that  I  ever  had  anything  but  happy  times.  Now  that 
I  am  out  in  the  world  my  past  makes  me  almost  afraid ! 
I  suppose  unhappiness  will  come  along  in  due  course. 

We  returned  from  Majorca  to  Marseilles  by  steamer 
because  we  were  not  sure  the  new  railway  through  the 
Pyrenees  was  open.  Then  from  Marseilles  we  came  on 
here  via  Toulouse  where  we  stopped  a  night  and  a  day 
to  look  about  us,  and  Pau  where  we  stayed  a  week  with 
Mme.  de  Lamelle  and  Georgy  Podsnap.  They  were  so 
kind:  it  was  almost  like  coming  home.  Georgy — she 
won't  let  me  say  "  Miss  Podsnap  " — met  us  at  the  sta- 
tion with  an  elegant  victoria  and  drove  us  out  to  their 
villa  which  is  nearly  two  miles  from  the  town,  south 
of  the  railway  and  deliciously  quiet.  It  was  furnished 

244 


HETTY  VENEERING  245 

with  what  I  thought  very  good  taste  but  was,  above 
all  things,  comfortable. 

Madame  de  Lamelle  is  a  dear.  She  does  not  talk  as 
much  as  Georgy,  but  her  eyes  twinkle  and  she  tells 
very  good  stories,  especially  about  the  almost  forgotten 
days  of  the  "  sixties."  She  strikes  you  at  first  as  rather 
hard,  rather  "  cynical  "  some  people  would  say.  Georgy 
told  me  she  was  down  on  most  people,  and  said  nearly 
every  one  including  herself,  but  excepting  Mervyn,  was 
a  humbug!  To  me  she  seems  awfully  kind  in  a  dry 
sort  of  way,  and  insisted  so  much  on  my  resting  in  the 
afternoons  that  I  got  quite  nervous  about  my  health, 
though  I  really  feel  splendid. 

Well,  after  a  week  with  them  we  left  our  heavy  lug- 
gage there  and  came  on  by  rail  and  carriage  to  the  great 
Pyrenees  nurseries  of  our  firm.  We  had  such  a  wel- 
come here — from  the  men — though  I  thought  the 
French  manager  looked  a  little  surprised,  and  apolo- 
gised rather  irritably  at  our  rooms  not  being  ready  or 
tidy.  I  felt  quite  shy  at  the  labourers'  enthusiasm. 
They  said — I  fancy — such  terribly  outspoken  things  to 
Mervyn — in  Basque  or  Limousin  or  something — about 
the  children  we  were  going  to  have. 

Mervyn  is  as  happy  as  I  am,  but  is  not  quite  pleased 
with  the  manager,  M.  Faidherbe.  He  said  I  was  not 
to  say  anything  about  it  till  he  got  home,  lest  it  worried 
father  unduly.  On  the  way  home,  by  the  bye,  we  are 
going  to  stay  with  the  Dudeffrands  near  Calais,  so 
that  I  can  see  Mer's  father.  It  may  be  very  cold  there 
(here  it  is  like  spring)  ;  but  Jeanne  is  such  a  dear  and 
will  be  sure  to  keep  us  warm,  and  Mervyn,  besides  in- 
troducing me  to  his  "  Papa,"  wants  to  see  Gaston  rather 
specially. 

I  wrote  mother  a  line  when  we  first  got  to  Pau.  I 
hope  she  got  it.  Mer,  as  I  said,  is  very  happy,  but  is 
developing  rather  a  wrinkled  brow  over  M.  Faidherbe's 
doings.  I  don't  think  F.  quite  expected  our  coming. 


246  THE  VENEERINGS 

Mme.  de  Lamelle  had  not  told  him.  He  is  outwardly 
very  civil,  but  his  eyes  and  lips  don't  smile  together. 
Your  loving  sister — with  love  to  all  of  you,  including 
the  servants,  HETTY 

La  Pepiniere, 
Gave  d'Aspe. 
Feb.  25,  1888. 

DEAR  FATHER-IN-LAW, 

Or  shall  I  straightway  accept  your  proposal 
to  call  you  "  father,"  tout  court?  Really,  to  treat  my- 
self as  your  son,  I  will.  When  I  write  to  my  other 
father  I  will  continue  to  say  "  Dear  Papa,"  since  he  still 
prefers  French  phrases  in  this  respect. 

Well,  dear  father,  things  here  do  not  please  me. 

We  arrived  at  Marseilles  on  February  8,  spent  a 
night  and  a  day  at  Toulouse  and  a  week  with  Mme. 
de  Lamelle  at  Pau,  and  came  on  here  seven  days  ago. 

For  various  good  reasons,  Mme.  de  Lamelle  had  said 
nothing  about  our  arrival  till  the  morning  we  started 
for  Oloron,  so  that  wre  drove  up  almost  with  the  post- 
man. Of  course  this  made  things  a  little  uncomfort- 
able for  that  treasure,  Hetty,  but  she  sprang  to  the 
occasion  and  set  to  work  ever  so  pleasantly  arranging 
our  sleeping  quarters  and  a  meal,  while  I  tackled  Faid- 
herbe  about  the  two  last  reports  and  the  alleged  failure 
of  the  Diotis  crop  and  the  Cunninghamia  plants,  and 
other  perturbing  announcements  he  made  last  autumn. 
Ramsbotham  is  rather  an  ass,  and  though  he  has  been 
here — what  is  it? — two  years? — can't  speak  French 
intelligibly  or  understand  it  except  it  is  spoken  to  suit 
his  grosser  senses.  But  he  is  perfectly  honest  and  is 
at  daggers  drawn  with  Faidherbe.  Faidherbe,  as  you 
observed  in  your  last  letter,  has  been  giving  himself 
very  generous  holidays,  simply,  as  R.  suggests,  so  that 
he  may  visit  plantations  of  his  own  or  his  brother's 
on  the  Marseillais  coast,  to  which  he  conveys  and  trans- 


HETTY  VENEERING  247 

plants  our  choicest  products,  including  the  Cunning- 
hamia  splendens.  I  am  not  returning  home  till  all  this 
is  cleared  up;  I  might  almost  say  till  F.  has  gone.  I 
shall  send  this  letter  on  to  Oloron  to  be  posted  there, 
not  liking  all  I  hear  from  R.  as  to  F.'s  control  over  the 
outgoing  mail,  nor  even  of  his  relations  with  the  post- 
mistress at  Lurbe. 

If  for  any  good  reason  you  think  I  ought  to  be  home 
and  at  work  in  Mincing  Lane,  either  you  or  Madison 
ought  to  replace  me  here  till  we  have  got  rid  of  Faid- 
herbe.  And  how  to  get  rid  of  him?  That  is  the  crux. 
Mme.  de  Lamelle  thinks  you  only  have  to  give  him  six 
months'  notice  or  six  months'  pay;  but  she  also  thinks 
he  has  relations  in  the  French  parliament  who  might 
raise  a  fuss,  and — knowing  the  French  in  their  present 
hostile  mood — considers  that  instead  of  investigating, 
proving  and  prosecuting  it  would  pay  better  a  la  longue 
to  say  you  or  I  or  some  unnamed  person  is  going  to  be 
manager  henceforth,  and  he  can  clear  out  now,  straight- 
away and  with  six  months'  pay  and  a  bonus  of ? 

Two  thousand  francs? 

The  French  Government  don't  like  us  because  we  are 
too  English  a  firm.  I  might  do  for  a  temporary  rem- 
pla^ant  of  Faidherbe  because  I  am  thought  to  be  partly 
Flemish  and  am  known  to  have  been  educated  in 
France,  and  my  parents  have  almost  become  French. 
Now  my  ideas  are:  (i)  To  stay  here  and  manage 
till  you  can  make  other  arrangements,  but  in  the  long 
run  I  may  be  more  useful  to  you  in  London.  The 
time  will  come — ever  so  long  hence,  I  hope — when  you 
won't  want  to  bother  too  much  about  office  work  in 
London,  and  perhaps  when  Madison  may  have  become 
home-sick  for  America,  and  I  shall  have  to  be  the  boss 
in  Mincing  Lane.  (2)  Why  should  we  not  bring 
Jeanne  and  Gaston  into  the  business,  and  make  Gaston 
manager  here?  He  doesn't  know  much  about  botany 
— as  yet — but  he  is  a  damned  good  cultivator,  very 


248  THE  VENEERINGS 

sound  in  horticulture.  And  there  would  be  Rams- 
botham,  or  his  like,  for  technical  botanical  work.  The 
climate  and  scenery  are  gorgeous.  Jeanne  would  be 
very  happy  here.  From  what  mother  said  to  me  at 
Chacely — my  own  mother,  I  mean — and  from  what 
she  has  subsequently  written,  my  father  at  Calais  is 
very  shaky.  If  he  were  to  die,  I  expect  mother  would 
sell  up  the  Calais  estate  and  be  only  too  glad  to  move 
to  Pau  or  Oloron  and  have  the  Lamelle  and  Georgy 
for  company.  She  could  continue  going  to  French 
Catholic  churches  under  a  French  director  of  her  con- 
science, and  in  other  ways  be  at  peace.  My  brother  by 
that  time  will  be  a  priest,  or  so  far  on  the  road  to  it  as 
to  be  out  of  account. 

Meantime,  Hetkins  and  I  will  stay  on  here  till  you 
have  considered  matters  and  come  to  a  decision.  If 
you  wish  to  act  quickly,  you  could  telegraph  (in  cy- 
pher) about  F.,  leaving  me  full  discretion  to  act  and 
act  quickly  along  the  lines  I  have  suggested. 

Did  I  tell  you  we  were  well  and  happy  ?    We  ARE. 
Your  grateful  son-in-the-spirit, 

MERVYN. 

Chateau  Perceforet, 

pres  Marquise. 

May  15,  1888. 
DEAREST  BOY, 

I  wrote  or  said  once — did  not  I  ? — that  after 
my  marriage  I  should  always  address  you  in  French. 
I  don't  know  why  I  have  broken  the  rule,  except  that 
the  Harmons  have  been  so  kind  that  I  have  become 
quite  reconciled  to  dear  England,  and  even  long,  some- 
times, a  little  to  hear  English  spoken.  And  then  I  feel 
I  am  writing  this  letter  to  Hetty  just  as  much  as  to  you. 
About  Hetty,  by  the  bye,  I  should  like  to  speak  as  the 
mother  of  two  large  children.  I  am  very  much  inter- 
ested in  what  she  told  me  in  her  last  letter.  I  should 


HETTY  VENEERING  249 

say  it  was  decidedly  as  she  thinks — and  hopes.  Que 
tout  aille  bien  avec  elle! — there! — you  see  I  am 
relapsing  into  French.  I  always  do  when  I  feel 
tender.  .  .  . 

Things  are  now  pretty  well  settled  between  Gaston 
and  Mr.  Harmon.  Gaston  hopes  we  may  be  able  to 
leave  this  place  in  July,  so  that  he  can  take  over  man- 
agement from  you  during  August.  Hetty  then,  if  she 
stayed  so  long,  might  be  able  to  travel  home  with  you 
in  stages,  tout  doucement.  And  yet  much  of  France 
is  really  too  hot  for  railway  travel  after  June  and  be- 
fore mid- September.  It  might  be  better  if  she  left  in 
June.  Perhaps  Georgy  Podsnap,  or  some  one  from 
home — how  strange  it  is  that  I  still  think  of  England 
as  "  home  " — could  escort  her  to  Paris  and  Dover  and 
from  Dover.  Or  you  might  do  so  to  Paris  and  I  could 
meet  you  there  and  take  over  charge. 

I  am  so  glad  you  thought  of  bringing  my  beloved 
Gaston  into  the  firm.  I  am  sure  you  have  not  made  a 
mistake.  After  Africa  he  has  never  really  cared  for 
the  Calais  district,  et  ni  lui  ni  moi  nous  ne  trouvons  fort 
sympathique  le  caractere  de  son  pere  .  .  .  M.  le  Maire 
a  des  idees  si  arrierees! 

Father  does  not  seem  to  me  at  all  well.  I  believe  he 
really  misses  that  scoundrel  Alfred  Lammle.  I  am  sure 
the  latter  was  a  scoundrel  once,  though  he  seems  to  have 
died  decorously  and  in  funds  at  Monte  Carlo.  Father 
says  he  is  living  out  of  his  world  and  out  of  his  time. 
Just  think!  He  has  never  seen  London  since  1864! 
His  "  world  "  died  in  France  when  the  Second  Empire 
fell.  I  have  ventured  to  tell  him  it  was  diet,  diet  en- 
tirely, diet  first  and  foremost.  He  should  take  no  sugar 
and  no  fat,  very  little  wine,  no  liqueurs  or  brandy,  and 
no  pate  de  f oie  gras.  Me  voila  presque  medecin !  Al- 
ready in  the  business!  Why  don't  you  send  father 
from  London  some  of  the  drugs  you  are  making? 
Those  for  fatty  degeneration  of  the  heart,  I  should 


250  THE  VENEERINGS 

say.  Gaston  t'ecrira  des  que  tout  est  fini,  range,  signe. 
En  attendant,  et  toujours,  quand  meme  et  quand  meme, 
even  if  you  turned  out  utterly  bad.  .  .  . 

Your  loving  sister, 

JEANNE. 

i,  Wigmore  Street, 
Cavendish  Square. 

T.         ,,  June  i,  1888, 

DEAR  MERVYN, 

I  have  come  to  a  definite  agreement  with  Gas- 
ton.  From  July  ist  (for  convenience  of  accounts),  he 
becomes  manager  at  the  Gave  d'Aspe,  where  he  will 
spend  first  a  month  or  two  under  your  superintendence 
as  a  partner.  My  hope  is  he  will  really  take  to  it,  grow 
to  it  and  with  it,  and  eventually  become,  not  only  our 
French  partner  and  representative,  but  the  figurehead 
in  a  daughter  firm  in  France. 

I  very  much  doubt  whether  our  great  enterprise  in 
medicine  production  can  be  united  in  one  British  house, 
in  our  house  of  Mincing  Lane.  I  may  have  thought 
so  twenty  years  ago.  I  didn't  then  take  into  account 
the  growth,  rather  than  the  decrease,  of  international 
jealousy.  Although  we  work  in  the  friendliest  co-op- 
eration with  Corness  and  Crabtree,  and  Madison  is  trie 
connecting  link,  we  remain  separate  houses,  though  they 
(through  Madison  in  a  way)  possess  about  a  fifth  of 
our  share  capital.  We  must  look  forward  to  similar 
turns  in  France.  Our  great  Pyrenees  plantations  and 
their  growing  factories  near  Oloron  may  have  to  be- 
come an  affiliated  enterprise,  even  an  independent  com- 
pany, owing  to  the  jealousy  of  the  French  Government. 
Similarly  we  may,  after  all,  some  day  take  up  your  ideas 
as  to  Majorca,  and  produce  a  Spanish  company,  and 
there  may  be  a  Belgian  one  connected  with  the  Congo 
domain  (I  am  probably  seeing  Leopold  II.  at  Ostende 
this  summer).  But  the  French  company,  through  Gas- 
ton  and  your  sister,  may  be  really  affiliated  with  ours. 


HETTY  VENEERING  251 

You  would  make  an  admirable  director-representative 
of  the  mother  firm  in  Mincing  Lane.  Our  founding 
money  will  receive  good  interest.  If  only  your  young 
brother  had  not  become  a  priest !  If  only  Madison  had 
a  brother  or  a  male  cousin !  If  only — most  disappoint- 
ing of  all — my  boys  were  not  footlers,  snobs,  or  pe- 
dants, our  families  and  friends  might  really  have  con- 
trolled this  vast  system  of  drug  production  and  have 
healed  the  world ! 

However,  though  it  is  good  to  have  long  views,  it  is 
equally  good — necessary — to  have  an  eye  for  details. 
For  some  time  to  come  the  plantations  in  the  Pyrenees 
will  be  conducted  with  the  money  (and  the  conspicu- 
ous talent!)  of  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.  Gaston, 
however,  thinks  that  if  he  prospers  during  the  next 
twelve  months,  his  father,  who  is  becoming  very  rich 
over  something  or  other  (I  hope  honest),  may  put 
twenty,  thirty  thousand  pounds  (it  sounds  an  awful 
lot  in  francs!  Query?  Is  it  good  for  the  French, 
morally,  to  use  9^d.  as  their  financial  unit?  It  makes 
them  seem  so  much  richer  than  they  are)  into  the 
French  branch  of  our  company;  perhaps,  indeed,  get  a 
small  group,  including  a  French  Rothschild,  to  sub- 
scribe £100,000.  And  then  make  the  French  planta- 
tions into  the  daughter  company,  I  project. 

For  a  hundred  reasons  which  I  have  not  time  to  put 
on  paper,  and  which  you  do  not  need  to  know,  I  believe 
in  the  French  side  of  the  Pyrenees  for  drug  cultivation. 
The  Spanish  side  has  less  rainfall,  less  fertile  soil,  and 
is  absorbed  in  its  unending,  idiotic  strife  between  Carl- 
ists  and  non-Carlists — and  ferocious  Republicans — all 
of  them  brigands  under  politer  names.  If  we  are  to 
dabble  with  Spain  in  drug  cultivation  it  must  be  in 
Majorca  as  you  urge  ...  a  little  later.  I  am  grow- 
ing old,  elderly,  at  any  rate — 57  last  birthday !  Don't 
run  me  out  of  breath.  Madison,  by  the  bye,  is  a  real 
trump  for  work — can't  say  how  many  hours  a  day. 


252  THE  VENEERINGS 

When  he  wants  a  rest  he  comes  down  to  Chacely  and 
plays  the  fool  with  Helen  and  tries  to  be  a  cricketer. 
"  Elizabeth,"  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was  going  to 
write  in  reference  to  his  love  affairs ;  but  Lizzie  won't 
look  at  him,  beyond  mere  politeness.  She  is  growing 
very  serious  and  takes  an  absorbing  interest  in  botany, 
in  the  Chacely  houses,  in  Kew,  even  in  the  not  very 
flourishing  Royal  Botanic  in  London.  She  has  thought, 
at  times,  of  going  into  one  or  other  of  the  women's 
colleges  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge;  but  she  fears  that 
time  is  wasted  there  over  antique  classic  rot  or  an  orgie 
in  inapplicable  algebra  or  Tennyson's  poetry  (which  I 
think  very  good).  She  entirely  endorses  all  your  views 
on  Education! 

However,  Helen — well,  Helen  (she  won't  let  me  call 
her  Nelly) — Helen  will  be  eighteen  next  birthday  (I 
adopt  her  way  of  putting  it,  instead  of  "  seventeen  last 
April").  How  they  are  all  growing  up!  She  thinks 
we  ought  to  put  more  "  artistry  "  into  our  work  and 
have  a  "  Cut  flowers  "  department.  So  I  said  to  her 
the  other  day :  "  Well,  my  dear,  so  be  it.  Upon  your 
promising  me  you  won't  cut  a  bloom  that  Elizabeth  says 
is  wanted  for  seed  or  drug  purposes,  you  may  start  this 
business.  The  head  gardener  will  put  you  in  touch 
with  some  Bristol  or  London  firm  that  buys  flowers  and 
you  shall  be  free  for  three  years  to  work  at  this.  I 
will  supply  you  with  a  reasonable  amount  of  capital, 
and  you  shall  keep  the  profits — for  three  years.  After 
that  we'll  see.  She  really  may  make  a  profit ;  there  is 
growing  yearly  such  a  demand  for  table  decoration, 
nosegays,  buttonholes,  and  God  knows  what  in  con- 
nection with  births,  deaths,  and  marriages.  And  it  will 
keep  her  mind  off  silly  flirtations. 

As  to  Parliament,  I  think  I  shall  remain  there  so  long 
as  Tewkesbury  retains  me,  though  I  am  getting  very 
sick  of  it.  It  costs  me  quite  a  thousand  a  year  in  in- 
direct bribery  and  election  expenses,  and  wastes  a 


HETTY  VENEERING  253 

frightful  amount  of  time.  But  if  I  were  out  of  it  drugs 
and  chemical  research  might  get  jumped  on.  Though 
I  doubt  this  so  long  as  Wiltshire  is  Prime  Minister. 
The  Wiltshire  Cabinet  has  righted  itself.  I  don't  know 
when  the  Liberals  will  come  in.  Gladstone  has  lost  my 
interest  and  backing,  if  that  counted  for  anything.  He 
cares  absolutely  nothing  for  science,  and  I  care  less 
than  nothing  for  the  Jewish  scriptures  and  Homer. 
Wiltshire  knows  almost  as  much  botany  as  I  do,  and  is 
going  to  reorganise  and  complete  on  grand  lines  the 
"  Flora  of  Tropical  Africa."  I  have  promised  him  all 
our  assistance.  Bella  and  I  went  to  Chapelmead  for  a 
week-end  in  May. 

Now  I  must  leave  off  writing.  By  the  bye,  we  are 
going  to  introduce  this  new  invention,  the  type-writer, 
into  our  office.  If  I  can  master  it  I  will  have  a  private 
one  for  my  home-work.  Best  wishes,  dear  boy,  that 
everything  will  turn  out  well.  Do  urge  Hetty  to  be 
very  careful.  I  do  not  think  she  ought  to  ride  any 
more,  for  a  while. 

Your  other  father, 

JOHN  HARMON. 

Chacely  Priory, 
nr.  Tewkesbury, 

July  3. 
DEAREST  MERVYN, 

John  and  I  were  aghast  at  your  letter  of  three 
days  ago.  Even  though  your  telegrams  that  followed 
were  more  reassuring.  How  my  own  darling  girl  could 
have  been  so  mad  as  to  continue  riding,  I  can't  think. 
Georgy  Podsnap  no  doubt  has  got  used  to  her  own 
pony,  but  would  be  the  last  person,  /  should  think,  to 
help  any  one  else  with  a  restive  horse.  However,  I 
must  not  be  ungrateful,  seeing  that  apparently  she  was 
able  to  help  my  own  darling  Hetty  in  her  trouble.  I 
am  writing  rather  incoherently,  I  fear,  not  knowing 


254  THE  VENEERINGS 

all  the  circumstances  and  being  still  in  an  agony  of 
apprehension.  Although  I  am  rather  stupid  over  for- 
eign travel,  I  could  come  at  once  if  you  telegraphed 
there  was  any  change  for  the  worse — at  once.  And 
John  would  escort  me.  I  only  don't  start  because  I 
understand  there  is  next  to  no  accommodation  at  your 
house.  But  I  dare  say  Madame  de  Lamelle  would  put 
me  up,  or  I  could  go  to  an  hotel  at  your  nearest  town 
and  drive  backwards  and  forwards.  I  will  do  just 
what  you  think  best.  Only  I  beg  and  pray  as  soon  as 
Hetty  is  well  enough  to  travel  that  she  comes  home, 
even  if  you  cannot  get  away  till  later. 

Our  news  from  Reggie  is  good.  Father  is  trying 
(in  Parliament)  to  agitate  for  a  bridge  over  the  Sev- 
ern near  Forthampton  Court,  just  below  the  Avon 
junction.  Our  young  County  Councils  are  so  timid 
about  such  things. 

Your  loving  and  very  anxious  Mother, 

BELLA  HARMON. 

Gave  d'Aspe. 

July  16. 

DEAREST  OF  MOTHERS, 

I  am  not  up,  yet ;  at  least  not  off  my  couch ; 
but  Mervyn  is  at  last — he  says — able  to  sleep  and  eat 
in  a  normal  way.  They  have  made  far  too  much  fuss 
about  me.  I  am  getting  well  very  quickly.  Mme.  de 
Lamelle  is  here  and  is  writing  to  you.  Poor  Georgy 
has  been  quite  ill  with  anxiety  and  regret  and  deserves 
heaps  of  praise  for  her  pluck  and  not  the  least  blame. 
How  it  all  came  about  and  why  I  did  not  adopt  your 
advice  earlier  I  will  tell  you  when  we  meet.  The  ex- 
planations involve  so  much  anatomy,  and  the  French 
doctors  pronounce  their  Latin  so  differently  to  ours !  I 
have  got  to  look  up  quite  a  number  of  terms. 

Poor  Mer  was  away  at  Oloron  when  it  happened. 
No  one  was  to  blame,  except  Fate  and  exceptional  cir- 


HETTY  VENEERING  255 

cumstances.  I  felt  obliged  to  go  to  one  of  our  planta- 
tions and  could  not  walk  there.  I  will  tell  you  later 
all  about  it;  too  much  writing  tires  me.  As  soon  as  I 
am  strong  again  I  will  return. 

Jeanne  and  Gaston  arrived  at  Oloron  just  before  it 
happened.  Mervyn  had  gone  to  meet  them.  Mme.  de 
Lamelle  will  see  me  as  far  as  Paris  (Georgy  too) ;  and 
you  and  father  might  meet  me  there.  And  darling 
Mer,  if  he  has  not  finished,  could  come  on  later. 

Ever  your  loving 

HETTY. 

Chacely  Priory, 
nr.  Tewkesbury. 

August  8. 

DEAR  AUNT  IZZY, 

I  am  so  sorry  you  and  your  summer  visit 
have  had  to  be  put  off  and  put  off;  but  you  will  have 
quite  understood  and  have  forgiven.  I  think  of  you 
all  alone  in  the  little  house  at  Finchley,  unless  you  have 
been  away  to  Broadstairs?  But  I  should  think  in  a 
week  or  two  you  could  come  here  and  find  me  quite  gay 
again,  with  my  dear  Hetty  restored  to  health. 

John  and  I  only  returned  with  her  here  from  Paris 
last  Tuesday.  We  stayed  in  London  twenty- four  hours 
to  have  her  examined  by  a  good  accoucheur,  but  he  was 
very  reassuring.  Of  course,  for  several  weeks,  she  is 
to  keep  very  quiet.  She  is  sure  to  fret  about  Mervyn, 
even  if  she  does  not  say  so.  So  we  have  begged  him  to 
come  here,  and  come  for  a  holiday,  as  soon  as  he  has 
initiated  his  brother-in-law  and  sister  into  the  affairs 
of  our  Pyrenees  stations. 

Our  other  "  boy,"  Madison— curious,  the  two  M.'s, 
as  we  call  them ! — has,  to  quote  John,  been  a  trump  of 
trumps.  I'm  told  Americans  when  they  are  good  are 
like  that,  and  when  bad,  very  bad !  Madison  is  becom- 
ing so  very  fond  of  Helen  that  we've  had  to  take  notice 


256  THE  VENEERINGS 

of  it.  Of  course  she's  only  seventeen,  or  as  she  says 
"  seventeen  and  a  half."  John  and  I  could  not  consent 
to  their  marrying  for  at  least  another  year.  I  should 
prefer  not  till  she  was  nineteen.  When  Mervyn  is  back 
here  at  work,  I  tell  Madison  he  ought  to  take  a  holiday 
to  America.  His  mother  keeps  saying  the  same  thing 
in  her  letters  to  me.  And  have  a  good  look  round  him 
there  before  deciding  to  propose  to  Helen.  But  he  says 
it  is  too  late.  He  has  lost  his  heart  and  Helen  won't 
give  it  back.  However,  we  shall  see. 

Strange,  is  it  not,  that  he  did  not  choose  Elizabeth  ? 
A  good  many  young  men  have  admired  her.  Some 
have  thought  her  not  prettier — my  too  elder  girls  are 
too  tall  to  be  "  pretty  " — but  handsomer  than  Hetty. 
I  cannot  see  that  she  is.  I  mean,  not  better-looking. 
But  Hetty — well  Hetty  is  just  a  darling  all  through, 
as  you  know.  Lizzie — I  have  promised  not  to  call  her 
that  any  more — Elizabeth  is  a  little  grave  at  times.  A 
little  "  withdrawn."  Helen,  who  is  a  dreadful  tease, 
told  her  the  other  day  that  if  she  did  not  marry  she 
would  become  a  terrible  old  maid  and  ask  for — what  do 
they  call  it  now  ? — the  Suffrage  ? — I  mean,  a  Vote. 

But  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to  Something  (John  seems 
very  doubtful  about  there  being  a  Providence!)  for 
such  children  as  I  have  had.  Johnny — John  junior  as 
we  sometimes  call  him,  now  he  is  growing  too  tall  for 
"  Johnny  " — is  getting  on  well  at  Oxford.  Reggie 
writes  in  high  spirits  about  his  prospects.  You  heard 
all  about  his  going  to  South  Africa  when  you  were 
here  last  Christmas  (for  Hetty's  wedding — dear,  dear 
Hetty).  Well,  now  he  is  accompanying  the  Governor 
on  a  tour  to  Bechuanaland.  But  I  must  close  as  I  am 
going  for  a  drive  with  Hetty. 

As  regards  Mudie's  books,  why  don't  you  ask  for 
William  Black's  last  ?  Something  about  a  House-boat. 

Your  loving  niece, 

BELLA  HARMON. 


HETTY  VENEERING  257 

I,  Wigmore  Street, 
Cavendish  Square,  W. 
November  2,  1888. 

DEAREST  JEANNE, 

Here  we  are,  settled  down  at  last,  and  it  is 
such  a  relief  to  me  to  be  a  "  well  "  woman  again  and  to 
be  in  a  town,  after  this  thoroughly  sloppy,  rainy,  muddy 
summer.  My  father  has  definitely  installed  us  here,  at 
home,  in  the  town  house.  John  junior  is  so  enamoured 
of  Oxford  that  he  only  leaves  it  for  Chacely:  though 
there  are  rooms  for  him  and  father  and  mother  and 
any  one  of  the  girls,  if  they  want  to  stay  in  town. 
Father,  to  provide  for  this,  gives  me  an  "  entertain- 
ment allowance,"  so  that  I  need  not  feel  anxious  about 
joints  and  entrees  and  servants'  wages.  Mer  has  been 
working  steadily  at  Mincing  Lane  whilst  Madison  went 
off  to  the  States. 

But  Maddy — as  I  must  and  will  call  him,  now  that 
he  is  betrothed — though  father  declares  he  isn't  and 
won't  be  till  after  next  April — to  Helen — Maddy  is 
now  back.  I  have  not  seen  him  yet  as  he  went  off  to 
father  at  Chacely  to  detail  the  long  conversations  he 
had  had  with  the  American  firm,  especially  a  mysteri- 
ous old  griffin,  Crabtree,  who  is  his  mother's  father. 

I  am  so  glad  you  like  the  climate  of  the  Gave  d'Aspe. 
I  thought  it  nearly  perfect  and  I  am  very  glad  Gaston 
agrees  with  me.  I  feel  perfectly  well  now — at  last — 
and  am  very  busy.  Besides  housekeeping  which  I  try 
to  do  well  because  Mer  has  to  entertain  and  dear  father 
must  be  made  thoroughly  comfortable  when  he  is  up 
for  Parliament  or  for  business,  I  visit  sometimes  at 
Queen  Charlotte's  Lying-in  Hospital  which  is  some- 
where at  the  back  here — rather  a  walk,  in  a  rather 
daunting  region  called  Marylebone.  Or  rather  it  is 
spelt  that  way  arid  pronounced  "  Marrybone."  For  a 
long  time  I  used  to  be  afflicted  about  its  grammar,  think- 
ing it  came  from  a  French  name  of  Norman  times.  But 


258  THE  VENEERINGS 

now  I  see  it  was  really  "  St.  Mary-le-Bourne  " — St. 
Mary  of  the  Brook;  though  that  seems  also  a  jumble 
of  tongues.  But  I  think  if  I  got  permission  to  do  a 
little  work  at  this  hospital  I  might  better  come  to  under- 
stand what  all  young  women  ought  to  be  taught  at 
school.  If  we  were  properly  instructed  in  such  mat- 
ters we  should  take  far  better  care  of  ourselves.  Si 
de  nouveau  j'ai  1'espoir  d'etre  mere,  je  te  le  ferai  con- 
naitre  et  tu  m'instruiras.  But  don't  you  agree  with  me, 
that  we  ought  all  of  us  to  have  learnt  those  things  at 
school?  Yet  when  I  have  once  or  twice  touched  on 
this  subject  with  English  doctors — or  even  French 
ones — they  were  horrified.  If  we  knew  all  about  child- 
bearing  we  should — they  thought — lose  all  our  charm 
for  our  husbands.  They  would  have  liked  to  have 
added  "  lovers,"  but  no  respectable  doctor  would  admit 
the  existence  of  unlawful  love  in  the  hearing  of  a  re- 
spectable young  woman. 

I  am  sick  of  all  this  humbug.  We  ought  to  know 
everything  that  can  be  taught  us  about  our  bodies, 
about  how  to  live  a  good,  profitable  life,  and  how  to 
avoid  death. 

However,  this  seems  as  though  my  letter  were  tak- 
ing a  morbid  tone.  I  am  much  too  happy  for  such  to 
be  the  case.  I  do  not  say  over  much  to  my  darling  Mer 
about  these  thoughts,  because  I  think  it  worries  even 
him  that  I  should  seek  to  know  everything  about 
women;  therefore  he  shrinks  from  discussing  parturi- 
tion as  though  it  were  not  altogether  "  proper."  Are 
French  husbands  like  that? 

Don't  fail  to  write  when  you  have  time.  A  good 
deal  of  my  thoughts  are  wrapped  up  in  the  Gave  d'Aspe 
and  the  way  things  are  going.  Did  the  new  seed  of  the 
Cunninghamia  come  up?  And  what  has  Gaston  done 
about  acquiring  the  west  side  of  the  valley  between 
Bedous  and  Accous,  or  the  next  gorge  to  the  east — I 
forget  its  name — above  Rebenacq?  It  is  said  the  rail- 


HETTY  VENEERING  259 

way  is  to  be  carried  up  that  valley  ( they  were  surveying 
up  to  Leruns)  for  eventual  passage  into  Spain.  But  if 
I  go  on  in  this  strain  you  will  think  I  am  intermeddling ! 

A  tantot,  ma  bien  chere  soeur. 

HETTY. 

Newlands  Corner, 
Cape  Town. 

DEAREST  HETTY, 

Your  letters  have  been  so  kind  that  I  cannot 
help  replying  to  them,  though  in  a  general  way  I  feel 
the  only  person  I  care  for  in  the  whole  family  is  mother. 
She  is  the  only  one  who  writes  regularly.  Father's  let- 
ters will  go  on  supposing  that  I  care  about  drugs  and 
drug  productions,  and  always  revert  to  botany  and  bo- 
tanical questions  sooner  or  later,  or  give  me  news  about 
the  firm  which  does  not  interest  me,  seeing  I  derive  no 
profits  from  it.  I  never  cared  for  botany  since  I  rea- 
lised it  was  running  away  with  most  of  our  money  to 
no  good  purpose.  But  I  won't  grouse.  I've  at  any  rate 
got  enough  to  live  on,  to  buy  a  sufficiency  of  clothes, 
even  if  I  could  not  afford  to  marry  unless  the  girl  had 
pots  of  money. 

Yet  I'm  not  quite  the  fool  they  take  me  for  in  some 
quarters.  I  see  immense  chances  here  of  making 
money.  When  I  was  little  more  than  a  kid  I  swanked 
about  the  Guards.  And  perhaps  if  I  had  not  passed 
into  the  Guards  I  should  not  be  an  A.D.C.  out  here. 
And  when  the  Great  War  comes,  which  is  bound  to 
come  some  day,  the  Guards  will  play  a  decisive  part, 
you  see  if  they  don't.  Only  meantime  I  want  to  make 
pots  of  money,  quickly,  and  then  come  back  to  England, 
choose  some  nice,  good-looking  girl,  settle  down  on  a 
fine  place,  and  get  into  Parliament. 

Only  not  with  the  intention  of  wasting  my  life  on 
botany!  Even  mineralogy  has  more  sense.  That's 
what  we  ought  to  have  taught  at  schools — geology  and 


260  THE  VENEERINGS 

mineralogy — How   and   where   to  look    for   precious 
metals  and  precious  stones. 

There's  a  man  out  here  you'll  soon  see  something 
about — C.  J.  Rhodes.  He's  member  of  the  local  Par- 
liament for  Kimberley  or  some  such  place  up  country, 
where  they  have  found  sacks  and  sacks  of  first-class 
diamonds,  and  nuggets  and  nuggets  of  gold.  He's  be- 
come boss  over  most  of  the  gold  and  diamond  com- 
panies, lives  quite  simply,  but  has  loads  of  money — in 
with  the  Rothschilds  and — I  forget  their  names  but 
some  other  big  financial  persons.  He's  dead  keen  on 
the  far  interior,  beyond  British  Bechuanaland  and  the 
Limpopo — King  Solomon's  mines,  don't  you  know,  and 
all  that.  He  believes  he's  squared  the  Boers.  They  all 
swear  by  him.  And  if  he  can  get  this  charter,  I'm  going 
to  be  with  him,  you  bet.  I've  had  a  talk  with  him 
here  when  he  came  to  visit  the  Governor.  And  when 
he  comes  back  from  England — you'll  see 

So  instead  of  spending  a  year  out  here,  as  father  first 
thought,  I  may  put  in  three — or  four — if  I  can  make 
my  pile.  Then  I'll  return,  marry,  and  settle  down,  and 
buy  some  place,  and  suck  the  Dad's  jujubes  if  I  catch 
cold.  The  first  good  diamond  I  find  I'll  give  to  mother. 
I  may  be  a  bit  hard-hearted  in  your  direction,  but  I'm 
dead  nuts  on  mother.  It's  partly  her  letters  about  you 
that  made  me  feel  inclined  to  write  all  this  to  you.  You 
know  one  does  feel  a  bit  soft,  a  bit  home-sick  out  here. 
Send  us  a  photograph  of  yourself — looking  your  pret- 
tiest— just  something  I  can  keep  by  me  to  look  at. 
And  drop  me  a  line  from  time  to  time.  If  you  address 
it  "  Government  House,  Cape  Town  "  it  will  always 
find  me. 

I  suppose  John's  wasting  his  time  at  Oxford?  How 
are  they  standing  the  American  at  Chacely  and  Minc- 
ing Lane? 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

REGGIE. 


HETTY  VENEERING  261 

I,  Wigmore  Street, 
Cavendish  Square,  W. 

DARLING  MOTHER,  May  30,  1889. 

I  saw  Dr.  Whitely  this  morning,  and  he 
thinks  it  pretty  certain  I  am  going  to  have  a  child.  If 
so,  the  event  should  take  place  some  time  in  November. 
He,  of  course,  advises  great  care,  especially  in  view  of 
the  accident  last  year.  He  advises  me  to  keep  lying 
down  as  much  as  possible,  at  any  rate  till  after  June. 
That  very  nice  nurse  whose  acquaintance  I  made  at 
Queen  Charlotte's  Hospital  is  coming  to  see  me  to-mor- 
row, and  from  time  to  time.  To-morrow  Mer  will  be 
away,  probably  at  Chacely,  seeing  to  the  new  plants 
from  the  Gave,  so  I  thought  she  and  I  could  have  tea 
together  and  she  would  have  excellent  advice  to  give 
me.  Dr.  W.  is  altogether  against  my  going  to  Chacely 
for  my  confinement,  which  disappoints  me  terribly.  He 
even  advises  no  railway  journey  this  year,  except  per- 
haps for  Christmas  (lovely  to  look  forward  to!)  when 
I  am  up  and  well  again  and  can  bring  IT  with  me  to 
Chacely,  dear,  dear  Chacely ! 

I  am  both  glad  and  sorry  over  this  turn  in  events. 
Sorry,  only,  because  there  are  times  when  I  tire  of 
London,  its  noise,  its  smells,  its  heartlessness.  Of 
course  this  is  only  peevishness — part  of  my  condition. 
I  am  doing  the  business  so  thoroughly  that  I  am  in- 
clined to  feel  a  little  sick  in  the  mornings  and  a  little 
disposed  to  cry  when  I  ought  really  to  feel  very  glad 
and  confident,  as  you  used  to  say  you  did  when  /  was 
on  the  way!  But  it  will  be  better,  I  think,  to  carry 
out  the  doctor's  prescription,  and  as  I  can't  come  to  you, 
perhaps  you  could  indulge  me  by  coming  up  to  town 
and  staying  with  me,  and  when  you  go  back  home,  Liz- 
zie might  take  your  place?  Lizzie  is  so  wise  now-a- 
days  that  she  inspires  me  with  immense  confidence. 
Your  loving  daughter, 

HETTY. 


262  THE  VENEERINGS 

I,  Wimpole  Street, 
Cavendish  Square. 
September  25,  1889. 

DEAR  OLD  REDGE, 

I  was  much  interested  in  your  last  letter. 
Every  one  here  says  that  in  a  few  days  the  issue  of  a 
Charter  to  Rhodes's  Company  will  be  made  known; 
and  although  we  are  a  little  anxious  lest  you  should  be 
rash,  we  hope  if  you  do  become  associated  with  Mr. 
Rhodes's  enterprise  you  will  make  out  of  it  a  great 
career,  perhaps  rise  some  day  to  be  a  great  Colonial 
administrator  or  else  make  your  fortune  quickly  out 
of  mining,  pick  up  a  few  diamonds  and  nuggets,  come 
home,  marry  happily,  get  into  Parliament,  and  promote 
good  legislation. 

I  am  always  a  little  unhappy  that  you  don't  believe 
enough  in  father's  and  Mervyn's  enterprise — drugs, 
and  above  all  vegetable  drugs.  I  am  like  them :  I  don't 
trust  minerals  and  metals.  They  are  so  near  the  poison 
side,  even  if  they  produce  efficacious  medicines. 

You  may  reply  asking  me  about  these  new  discov- 
eries in  coal  tar,  in  bye-products  of  coal,  out  of  which 
the  Germans  are  making  such  wonderful  medicines. 
But  if  you  do,  I  shall  turn  on  you  and  ask :  "  What  is 
Coal?  "  And  you'll  have  to  admit  its  vegetable  origin 
— It  is  simply  trunks  of  trees,  infiltrated,  I  admit — re- 
gretfully— with  mineralised  water. 

Since  the  end  of  July  I  have  been  much  happier  be- 
cause the  doctor  and  the  accoucheur-surgeon  whom 
Mer  consulted  thought  I  might  now — from  August 
onwards  till  the  middle  of  November — be  out  and 
about  a  little,  taking  care  not  to  tire  myself,  of 
course.  So  I  have  been  having  little  walks  and  little 
careful  drives  in  the  brougham  visiting,  amongst 
other  places,  the  Queen  Charlotte  Lying-in  Hospital  at 
the  back,  in  West  Marylebone.  I  want  to  get  thor- 
oughly educated  in  the  great  Baby  question  and  also 


HETTY  VENEERING  263 

to  confer  with  one  of  the  mid-wives  there — such  a  nice 
woman.  The  poor  women  in  the  hospital  simply  adore 
her.  I  thought,  perhaps,  if  she  could  get  leave  of 
absence  to  come  and  look  after  me,  when  my  trouble 
comes  on.  ... 

Not  that  I  am  thinking  about  that  too  much  or  too 
often.  I  am  really  too  busy,  because  although  I  now 
take  a  little  exercise  every  day  and  don't  come  down  to 
breakfast  and  sometimes  go  to  bed — or  to  my  bedroom 
— quite  early  ( I  do  miss  the  theatre  so ! )  I  get  through 
a  lot  of  work  for  Mervyn  and  for  father.  I  answer 
some  of  their  letters  about  drugs  so  intelligently,  sign- 
ing them  simply  "  H.  Veneering  " — that  the  answer, 
when  it  comes,  is  addressed  "  H.  Veneering,  Esq. !  " 

Mer,  of  course,  is  frightfully  busy,  so  I  am  happy  to 
be  so  well  (considering),  but  he  no  longer  looks  or 
feels  so  anxious.  The  doctors,  of  course,  won't  hear  of 
a  train  journey,  or  of  any  drive  farther  than  the  Zoo 
or  the  Botanic  Gardens.  I  go  occasionally  to  a  matinee, 
but  never  anywhere  in  the  evening.  What  used  to  be 
Mer's  bedroom  is  turned  into  a  dear  little  sitting-room. 
Here  there  is  a  good  reading  lamp — Marylebone's  elec- 
tricity seems  to  have  come  to  utter  grief.  It  is  an  un- 
happy borough.  Mer  has  put  in  a  small  piano  of  de- 
lightful tone  made,  of  course,  in  Germany  by  a  firm 
with  a  Slavonic  name!  So  when  he  is  not  away  at 
Chacely  or  in  France  (where  he  goes  for  rapid  visits — 
his  father  is  ill,  and  his  mother  much  worried)  he  sits 
with  me  here  of  an  evening  and  does  his  work  at  the 
table  under  the  lamp,  and  I  play  through  endless  music 
at  the  piano ;  or  just  lie  on  a  couch  and  read.  Or  some- 
times I  am  busy  sewing  and  embroidering  tiny  gar- 
ments whilst  he  reads  aloud  to  me. 

I  have  always  been  such  an  active  out-of-doors 
woman,  that  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  how  in- 
tensely I  enjoy  this  life. 

Well  now,  dear  boy,  I  must  not  write  too  long  a  let- 


264  THE  VENEERINGS 

ter.  We  all  hope  you  won't  be  rash  in  leaving  the  Gov- 
ernor's service,  yet  we  all  understand  you  want  to  shape 
a  great  career  for  yourself  in  South  Africa,  and  then 
return  and  live  near  where  we  live.  I  am  not  going 
to  open  up  controversial  subjects  now,  not  till  after 
Baby  is  born,  but  I  am  sure  of  this:  that  you  will  some 
day  come  to  know  what  a  good  fellow  Mervyn  is. 
Ever  your  loving  sister, 

HETTY. 

Cablegram  from  Mrs.  Harmon,  i  Wimpole  Street, 
Cavendish  Square,  November  24,  1889:  to  Captain 
Reginald  Harmon,  Government  House,  Cape  Town. 

"  Hetty  gave  birth  little  girl  doing  well.    MOTHER." 

i,  Wimpole  Street, 
Cavendish  Square. 
December  ij,  1889. 

DEAREST  REGGIE, 

It  shocks  me  profoundly  to  have  to  write  this 
letter,  nearly  three  weeks  after  sending  you  that  tele- 
gram about  darling  Hetty's  baby  girl.  Your  sister 
Hetty  died  four  days  ago  and  will  be  buried  to-morrow 
at  Chacely  churchyard. 

I  have  not  cabled  you  again  because  I  feared  the  ef- 
fect on  you  might  be  too  terrible.  I  thought  it  better 
to  write.  And  yet  you  may  see  the  news  in  the  Press — 
I  don't  know  what  is  best,  and  your  dear  father  is 
so  ill  with  grief,  I  don't  like  to  trouble  him  with 
questions. 

You  will  hardly  be  able  to  believe — like  me — that  any 
one  so  beautiful  and  loving  as  Hetty  is  dead,  could  be 
allowed  to  die.  She  began  to  be  ill  twelve  hours  after 
the  little  girl  was  born  and  soon  she  was  very,  very  ill. 
We  scarcely  yet  know  with  what.  The  doctors — we 
called  in  additionally  Sir  Michael  Fosbrooke — were  so 


HETTY  VENEERING  265 

very  reticent  and  secret.  They  wrote  it  down  at  last 
as  "  Septicaemia."  Both  your  father  and  poor  dis- 
traught Mervyn  (who  is  nearly  dead  with  grief)  fear 
it  was  a  form  of  puerperal  fever,  and  think  that  she 
must  have  caught  some  germ  of  it  from  visiting  a  great 
lying-in  hospital  in  Marylebone. 

She  was  so  tender  over  women's  sufferings,  so  anx- 
ious to  help  them.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  We 
ought,  perhaps,  to  have  advised  her  to  think  only  of 
herself  and  go  nowhere  whilst  she  was  bearing  children. 

The  head  monthly  nurse  came  from  practice  at  this 
hospital,  but  she  had  been  for  a  short  interval  of  rest 
to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  The  whole  thing  is  so  wrapt  in 
obscurity  that  one  dares  hardly  inquire  for  fear  of 
libel  actions  or  of  making  unjust  aspersions.  And  what 
is  more,  the  doctors  who  are  very  puzzled  won't  admit 
it  was  puerperal  fever,  and  we  can't  make  out  anything 
clear  from  the  description  in  the  death  certificate. 

I  am  so  ill,  so  heart-broken,  so  utterly  in  despair,  I 
cannot  write  any  more.  You  will  understand,  won't 
you?  The  little  baby  is  a  darling — that  is  our  only 
consolation.  We  are  all  afraid  poor  Mervyn  is  going 
out  of  his  mind.  His  kind  sister  Jeanne  has  come  over 
to  look  after  him,  and  Elizabeth  has  been  a  jewel  of 
goodness. 

Your  loving  mother, 

BELLA  HARMON. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS 

i,  Wigmore  Street, 
Cavendish  Square. 

May  12,  1890. 
DEAR  MERVYN, — 

IT  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  Bella  and  I 
feel  for  you  to  the  very  depths  of  our  hearts.  But 
you  ought,  by  our  very  love  for  you,  to  measure  our 
dismay  and  anxiety  at  hearing  practically  nothing  since 
you  left  home  last  Christmas  for  Trinidad,  except  cable- 
grams giving  your  addresses  for  letters,  just  testimony 
to  the  fact  that  you  exist. 

Your  grief  I  doubt  not  seems  immeasurable.  But 
you  are  young,  not  yet  twenty-eight ;  and  the  father  of 
a  healthy  child.  I  know  no  more  of  the  mystery  of 
life  and  death  than  you  do,  but  I  cannot  quite  steel 
myself  to  the  conviction  that  bodily  death  puts  an  end 
to  personality.  I  can  so  little  bear  to  convince  myself 
that  any  one  so  wholly  precious  as  Hetty  perished  when 
the  body  died,  that  I  go  on  hoping  for  proof — some 
day — of  spiritual  survival,  even  ready  to  believe  it  with- 
out proof. 

However,  I  won't  turn  this  letter  into  a  philosophical 
treatise.  I  have  thought,  bit  by  bit,  over  my  dealings 
with  you  since  you  were  a  boy  (how  well  I  remember 
my  seeing  you  first,  when  I  called  on  your  mother  at 
the  Calais  villa!)  And  in  truth  I  cannot  justify  you 

266 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  267 

in  my  thoughts  for  keeping  us  without  news  of  your- 
self. I  never  discuss  you  with  any  one,  not  even  with 
my  dear  wife — so  heart-broken  over  her  child's  death, 
so  agonised  over  asking  herself  and  me  whether  we 
could  not  have  done  this  or  why  we  failed  to  do  that, 
that  she  seems  to  have  grown  old  since  Hetty's  death. 
Our  business  is  so  appropriate  to  your  grief.  What 
are  we  striving  for,  what  have  we  put  our  money,  our 
energy,  our  brain-strength  into?  The  prevention  of 
such  deaths  as  Hetty's.  The  cure  of  all  diseases. 

Do  try  to  pull  yourself  together.  If  this  travel  gives 
you  no  relief  in  heart-ache,  come  home.  We  are  all 
longing  to  have  you  among  us.  Your  child — I  told  you 
we  had  called  her  Hetty — Henrietta — is  thriving. 
Nearly  six  months  old,  and  promises  to  be  a  lovely  lit- 
tle creature,  almost  Hetty  come  to  life  again,  we  like 
to  think.  Perhaps  that  is  Resurrection  ? 

Would  you  also  think  me  brutal  if  I  said  that  I  was 
getting  over-worked  during  your  absence?  If  you  are 
really  curing  your  grief  to  some  extent,  I  don't  mind. 
But  to  leave  me  without  any  assurance  of  this  is — well, 
it  is  not  like  the  old  Mervyn. 

I  am  obliged  to  give  you  one  piece  of  bad  news  in 
this  letter,  for  fear  you  may  learn  of  it  in  some  more 
abrupt  way.  Your  poor  father  died  a  week  ago,  at  the 
Calais  villa.  Your  mother  is  rather  woe-begone,  but 
the  best  of  all  Jeannes  has  left  the  Pyrenees  to  comfort 
her  and  see  to  everything.  Gaston  was  only  able  to 
spare  time  just  to  attend  the  funeral.  You  know  how 
particular  French  people  are  about  funerals;  otherwise 
I  don't  think  he  would  have  come  away  at  all. 

I  have  told  your  mother  I  would  break  the  news  to 
you,  before  she  writes.  .  .  .  She  cannot  very  well  send 
you  a  "  faire  part,"  because  you  are  a  signatory ! 

As  far  as  I  can  gather,  your  father  died  from  a 
stroke,  quite  suddenly.  Of  course  it  is  early  to  make 
plans  for  your  mother,  but  I  should  think  she  would 


268  THE  VENEERINGS 

sell  the  villa  (for  much  more  than  they  gave  for  it)  and 
move  to  Oloron  to  be  near  Jeanne.  Your  brother 
Lancelot  is  with  her  just  now,  but  presently  returns 
to  Autun.  We  are  so  busy  at  the  present  time  that 
all  I  could  do  was  te  travel  to  Calais  by  the  night 
train,  attend  the  funeral,  and  return  to  London  in  the 
afternoon. 

Needless  to  say,  we  all  send  love.  We  all  love  you 
very  dearly,  Mervyn.  We  shall  all  be  nearer  happiness 
again  when  you  are  visible  to  our  eyes.  Elizabethj  I 
should  add,  is  like  a  mother  to  your  babe.  She  has 
taken  special  charge  of  it  at  Chacely.  Madison,  I  ex- 
pect you  remember,  is  going  to  marry  Helen  at  the  be- 
ginning of  June.  I  shall  put  them  at  I,  Wigmore 
Street  (I  hope  we  shan't  come  to  regard  it  as  unlucky !) 
till  you  are  back  again  amongst  us,  and  then  we  may 
have  to  recast  our  plans.  Reggie  is  apparently  leaving 
his  association  with  the  Governor  at  the  Cape  (on  the 
best  of  terms)  to  serve  with  Rhodes's  Company  and  be 
a  pioneer  in  Mashonaland. 

Your  loving — father,  if  you  still  so  regard  me — 

JOHN  HARMON. 

Poison's  Hotel, 

Greytown, 

Nicaragua, 
June  30,  1890. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER, 

I  deserve  some  of  your  reproaches,  but  not 
all.  I  arrived  here  yesterday  and  found  your  letters  of 
March  and  May  at  the  Post  Office.  I  had  travelled  here 
from  Panama  and  Costa  Rica.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
besides  sending  cablegrams  about  my  address  I  did 
write  two  letters,  one  from  the  Orinoco  and  another 
from  Cartagena  (Colombia),  and  if  they  have  not 
reached  you  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  am  awfully  sorry 
about  my  real  father's  death  because  in  her  old  age  I 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  269 

think  my  mother  had  grown  very  fond  of  him.  The 
sad  truth,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  is  that  he  seemed 
to  have  died  when  I  was  a  child.  I  have  yet  to  learn 
why  he  so  completely  wilted.  It  was  my  mother  who 

did  everything  for  us. 

***** 

For  a  month,  at  least,  since  I  left  England  I  felt 
nearly  off  my  head  with  grief,  and  got  so  much  pulled 
down  with  loss  of  appetite,  etc.,  that  I  looked  a  middle- 
aged  man.  After  landing  at  Caracas  I  came  more  to 
myself,  and  later  I  found  that  journeying  in  Venezuela 
and  Colombia  is  so  risky — people,  food,  night-accom- 
modation, insects,  snakes,  vampire  bats,  and  bugs — 
that  it  certainly  induces  some  surcease  of  sorrow  in  the 
merely  stupid  desire  to  survive.  You  must  add,  in 
imagination,  to  trie  terrors  already  cited,  frightful  sun- 
heat,  earthquakes,  torrential  rains,  and  travelling  armies 
of  ants;  presidential  crises,  coups-de-main  or  coups- 
d'etat;  and  deep  suspicions  on  the  part  of  the  govern- 
ing half-caste  of  the  pure-blooded  European,  especially 
if  he  be  travelling  with  a  British  passport. 

My  sense  of  loss  over  Hetty  is  still  such  that  I  can 
scarcely  bear  to  write  about  it.  And  yet  curiously 
enough,  I  am  filled  with  a  conviction  she  is  not  dead, 
that  she  is  even  with  me  here  in  some  inexplicable  way. 
I  can't  reason  about  it.  I  can  only  say  that  at  Caracas, 
of  all  horribly  inappropriate  places,  my  stunning  grief 
seemed  to  lift.  She  came  back  to  me  in  dreams, 
dreams  so  real  that  in  some  slight  way  I  was  consoled. 
I  began  to  look  about  me  and  to  observe. 

My  visit  to  Trinidad  was  an  utter  failure  as  regards 
note-taking  and  discoveries.  I  was  shown  all  sorts 
of  things  and  believe  I  said  they  were  very  wonderful. 
I  intended  to  write  reports  about  them  for  the  firm,  but 
can't  find  any  trace  of  my  notes.  On  the  voyage  and 
for  some  weeks  after  it,  I  slept  every  night  an  almost 
drugged  sleep — never  dreamt,  seemed  partly  stupefied. 


270  THE  VENEERINGS 

People  were  very  kind  and  did  not  pester  me  with 
questions. 

Well  now,  I  won't  go  on  with  that  phase.  It  is  an 
enormous  joy  and  help  to  me  now  to  know  that  her 
child  lives  and  seems  to  be  Hetty  born  over  again.  I 
almost  hated  the  child  at  first  for  being,  in  some  way, 
the  cause  of  its  mother's  death.  I  am  quite  aware, 
quite  remember  that  the  real  cause  was  puerperal  fever 
— mysteriously  enough;  but  knowing  Hetty  as  an  in- 
dividual was  more  to  me  than  any  children,  I  lashed 
myself  with  reproaches  that,  after  the  warning  we  had 
at  the  Gave  d'Aspe,  I  ever  let  her  have  another.  But 
these  after  thoughts  are  no  good.  I'm  sure  you  both 
did  what  you  could  and  all  you  could 

Well  now,  my  plans  are  to  see  all  I  can  of  the  Nica- 
raguan  flora — from  a  medical  point  of  view — in  a  few 
months;  then  possibly  to  take  a  hurried  look  at  Hon- 
duras and  San  Salvador,  and  after  that  come  home.  I 
shouldn't  in  any  case  go  to  Mexico  because  you  will  re- 
member, in  our  correspondence  with  old  Crabtree,  we 
pledged  ourselves  not  to  anticipate  them  there.  As  to 
Central  America,  I  think  the  general  understanding  was 
for  both  parties  to  be  free,  to  intercommunicate  results 
and  share  them  or  develop  separately.  When  I  have 
time  I  will  write  out  my  notes  on  Costa  Rica,  of  which 
region  I  think  very  highly,  except  for  the  earth- 
quakes! 

Give  my  love  specially  to  Elizabeth  for  taking  Hetty's 
place  beside  her  babe;  to  Helen  and  Madison.  Buy 
some  rattling  good  wedding  present  for  them  on  my 
behalf  and  reclaim  the  cost  from  me.  I  will  send  you 
another  letter — a  long  one — as  soon  as  I  have  seen 
something  of  Nicaragua.  I  am  writing  to  my  mother 
at  Calais,  and  I  will  write  soon  to  my  other  and  very 

dear  mother  at  Chacely 

Your  affectionate 

MERVYN. 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  271 

Chacely  Priory, 
nr.  Tewkesbury. 
August  20,  1890. 

DEAREST  MERVYN, 

Your  letter  to  father  gave  us  all  such  relief. 
Whether  discreetly  or  indiscreetly  he  read  it  aloud  (if 
there  was  anything  very  private  in  it  no  doubt  he  sup- 
pressed it).  There  were  present:  Me,  Baby,  Mother, 
and  of  course  the  Reader—dear  father,  the  one  impec- 
cable, sinless  person  I  have  ever  known.  Some  of  us 
cried  a  little,  just  enough  to  dab  eyes  a  little  after- 
wards, but  Baby  and  I  decided  we  were  still  young  and 
you  were  still  far  off  thirty  and  that  we  had  a  great 
deal  of  work  to  do  in  the  world. 

But  just  a  few  more  words  about  our  darling  Hetty 
before  I  switch  off  on  to  some  other  subject.  The  ma- 
sons are  getting  on  fast  with  the  tomb— -horrid  word, 
but  I  can't  at  the  time  think  of  another.  It  is  designed 
like  those  exquisite  ones  of  the  early  eighteenth  cen- 
tury that  we  have  all  admired  in  Tewkesbury  church- 
yard, like  a  large  casket.  I  have  made  a  little  sketch 
and  enclose  it.  Of  course  we  all  hope  you  and  father 
are  going  to  find  some  drug — at  last — that  will  give  a 
few  nice,  chosen  people  like  him  and  mother,  you  and 
me,  Helen  and  Maddy  immortality.  But  in  case  you 
fail  you  must  join  Hetty  here,  so  there  will  be  room 
for  you.  Do  you  mind  my  being  so  explicit?  I  don't 
feel  that  this  is  a  very  delicate  letter,  but  it  is  sincere. 

And  now  about  business.  The  firm,  according  to 
Madison,  are  getting  on  "  fine."  Stanley's  having 
called  attention  to  our  drugs  has  resulted  in  huge  orders 
from  all  directions,  because  Africa  now  is  being  opened 
up  with  vigour,  and  at  the  same  time  blackwater  fever 
is  slaying  the  white  pioneers  at  a  great  rate,  those  at 
least  that  have  not  our  remedies.  Our  business  with 
India  is  increasing  at  such  a  rate  that  father  thinks  we 
shall  have  to  found  an  Indian  branch  and  one  or  more 


272  THE  VENEERINGS 

Indian  manufactories.  We  shall  need  to  establish  an 
Egyptian  branch,  he  thinks,  and  if  Kitchener  is  al- 
lowed to  smash  up  the  Mahdi — or  is  it  the  Khalifa? — 
we  shall  be  called  on  for  participation  in  the  Sudan. 

So  as  soon  as  you  return  you  will  be  too  busy  to 
grieve  much.  You  poor  darling — how,  how  much  I 
feel  for  you,  knowing  how  intensely  you  loved  her  — 
and  how  deeply  she  loved  you.  But  we  won't  think  of 
her  as  dead.  I'm  sure  she  isn't.  I  did  feel  just  at  first, 
for  about  a  month,  a  sort  of  blankness,  but  suddenly 
hope  came  to  me.  ...  I  can't  explain  it  but  I  cling  to 
the  hope  obstinately. 

Everything  at  the  Gave  d'Aspe  is  prospering.  It  was 
such  a  good  idea  of  yours  importing  Gaston — and 
Jeanne — into  the  business.  It  seems  to  have  quieted 
the  French  Government  and  the  local  prefet  completely. 
Mme.  de  Lamelle  is  still  at  Pau,  except  when  she  goes 
on  little  tours.  The  local  authorities  have  never  been 
able  quite  to  make  her  out,  which  is  why  I  admire  her 
cleverness.  Of  course,  though  her  French  is  very 
good,  they  know  it  was  not  the  language  she  was  born 
with;  but  they  take  her  generally  for  the  widow  of  an 
Irish  patriot,  with  a  French  name,  who  died  in  exile. 
But  the  French  are  not  quite  so  rabidly  against  all 
British  enterprise  as  they  were,  we  having  given  in 
over  Madagascar.  I  suppose  you  have  had  your  papers 
and  seen  somewhere  the  conventions  or  treaties  or 
whatever  they  were  with  France  and  Germany  about 
East  Africa  and  Madagascar? 

I  heard  from  your  mother  the  other  day.  She  says 
she  has  written  to  you  about  her  plans,  so  it  would  be 
waste  of  paper  space  to  describe  them  here — if  you 
have  had  her  letter.  But  it  is  nice  to  think  of  her  going 
to  live  at  Pau,  near  the  Lamelle,  and  Georgy  and 
Jeanne.  Jeanne  confided  to  me  in  her  last  letter  that 
she  hopes  your  brother  Lancelot  will  not  get  himself 
transferred  to  the  Pyrenees  too,  to  join  your  mother, 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  273 

as  he  has  become  very  fanatical  and  mysterious  and  is 
always  railing  at  the  Jews;  and  at  the  same  time  gets 
too  much  money  out  of  his  mother  for  propaganda. 
But  this  reads  badly,  rather  like  mischief -making. 
Jeanne  ought  to  be  able  easily  to  protect  your  mother, 
now  she  has  come  to  live  so  near.  And  Mme.  de  La- 
melle  is  splendid  for  cases  like  that — so  skilfully,  so 
indomitably  rude. 

I  don't  ask  you  to  answer  this  letter.  But  just  let 
me  know  you  had  it  and  that  it  did  not  hurt  you,  and 
I  will  try  to  write  once  a  month  till  you  are  back.  I'll 
write,  if  it's  only  to  let  you  know  how  little  Hetty  gets 
on.  It's  so  jolly  having  her  at  Chacely,  and  is  doing 
mother  worlds  of  good  .  .  .  making  her  look  young 
again. 

Your  loving, 

ELIZABETH. 

P.S.  I  forgot  to  say  we  had  a  month's  visit  from 
Reggie  in  June — July.  It  helped  to  cheer  mother  up. 
He  is  full  of  the  Zambezi  and  the  Portuguese  (whom 
he  wants  to  fight,  poor  things!)  but  we  thought  him 
improved.  Africa  has  done  him  good. 

Santa  Margarita, 
Segovia, 
Nicaragua. 
October  3,  1890. 
DEAREST  ELIZABETH, 

Your  letter  of  June  30  has  taken  a  long  time 
to  reach  me;  but  Central  American  postal  communica- 
tions being  what  they  are  (though  better  than  those 
in  Venezuela),  and  my  wanderings  having  been  at 
times  both  abrupt  and  impulsive,  I  attach  no  blame  to 
any  one,  in  that  I  only  received  and  read  your  letter  of 
June  30  on  October  I,  in  the  northernmost  part  of  this 
Republic.  I  have  traversed  this  truly  interesting  coun- 
try almost  from  the  south  to  the  north,  but  have  chiefly 


274  THE  VENEERINGS 

devoted  myself  to  examining  its  flora  and  all  its  drug- 
yielding  trees  and  plants  along  the  mountainous  centre. 
Nicaragua,  fortunately,  is  much  less  earthquaky  than 
Costa  Rica  where  the  shocks  and  tremors  and  the  sight 
of  ruined  towns  quite  got  on  my  nerves,  and  turned 
my  thoughts  away  from  my  own  sorrows. 

The  mountains  here  are  disappointing  after  those  of 
Costa  Rica  in  that  they  are  not  nearly  so  high.  Seven 
thousand  feet  seems  to  be  about  the  highest,  though  / 
have  been,  so  far  as  my  aneroid  tells  me,  nowhere  above 
six  thousand.  But  so  much  of  Nicaragua  is  above  two 
thousand  feet  that  the  climate — despite  the  excessive 
rainfall — is  bearable,  though  I  have  managed,  in  my 
blundering  way,  to  pass  through  the  land  in  the  very 
height  of  the  rainy  season!  The  annual  rainfall  in 
the  eastern  districts  is  290  inches!  It  is  heaviest  in 
July,  in  which  month  alone  over  fifty  inches  fell  this 
year!  It  used  to  begin  whilst  we  were  having  lunch 
and  continue  till  early  the  next  morning.  Between 
eight  and  twelve  in  the  morning  it  would  be  sunny, 
with  a  blue  and  white  sky.  So  that  one  could  get  out, 
botanise,  and  see  the  people  and  the  amazing  butterflies. 

I  will  write  this  letter  patiently  and  systematically, 
even  if  it  takes  me  (in  between  botanising)  a  couple  of 

days. 

***** 

I  should  guess  from  the  fossil  remains  that  about 
five  hundred  thousand  years  ago,  Central  America 
teemed  with  strange  mammals,  travelling  from  South 
up  to  North  America  and  from  North  down  into  South 
America.  Elephants  of  four  or  five  kinds  and  sabre- 
toothed  tigers,  camels  of  sorts,  jaguars  and  pumas 
roamed  through  it ;  but  it  was  too  narrow,  and  perhaps 
too  volcanic,  to  serve  as  a  permanent  home.  Similarly, 
the  monkeys  which  had  penetrated  into  South 
America  from  Africa  wandered  north-westward  into 
Colombia  and  Central  America,  but  only  in  a  few 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  275 

species  as  compared  with  Brazil.  Then  there  were 
the  tapirs  of  the  Old  World.  Tapirs  are  charming 
creatures — why  does  not  some  millionaire  domesticate 
them  ?  I  should  like  to  drive  a  pair  of  black  and  white 
Malayan  tapirs  in  the  Park.  Well,  these  tapirs,  in  no 
very  distant  times,  having  ranged  from  Eastern  Asia 
into  North  America  fled  before  the  cold  of  the  awful 
Ice  Ages  into  Central  America,  and  so  onward  into 
the  great  southern  enlargement,  east  of  the  Andes. 
They  left  behind,  in  Nicaragua  and  other  parts  of  this 
central  isthmus,  two  peculiar  species,  one  of  which  I 
have  seen. 

The  Ocellated  Turkey  and  some  other  northern  types 
of  beast  and  bird  only  got  as  far  south  as  Honduras, 
while  the  bulk  of  the  South  American  creatures  of  an- 
cient African  origin  stopped  in  their  northern  wander- 
ings at  Costa  Rica. 

Costa  Rica  is  in  some  ways  (I  think)  the  beginning 
of  "  South  "  America;  and  "  North  "  America  ends  in 
the  pines  and  wolves  of  Nicaragua. 

One  curious  testimony  to  this  theory  is  the  spread  of 
the  northern  forms  of  Conifers  (pine-trees).  They 
reach  south  to  the  higher  parts  of  Nicaragua,  but  do 
not  attain  to  Costa  Rica,  though  the  mountains  there 
are  much  loftier,  often  exceeding  thirteen  thousand  feet. 
The  Southern  conifers  of  South  America — Libocedrus, 
Araucarias  or  "  monkey-puzzles  " — do  not  seem  to  be 
found  to-day  north  of  the  highest  Andes  in  Colombia. 
I  hope  all  this  disquisition  will  not  make  you  yawn ! 

Poor  South  America  has  been  a  rather  shabbily 
treated  continent  by  the  Generator  of  our  Life-force.  It 
was  once — up  to  the  Andes — an  extension  of  Africa, 
from  which  it  was  supplied  with  its  fresh-water  fish, 
its  manati,  most  of  its  birds  and  mammals.  Then  in 
the  late  Tertiaries,  through  the  West  Indies  and  Cen- 
tral America,  it  became  connected  with  North  America 
and  developed  a  wonderful  backbone  in  the  Andes. 


276  THE  VENEERINGS 

North  America,  by  way  of  Alaska,  was  then  joined  to 
Asia.  So  through  the  western  side  of  North  America 
and  the  new  Isthmus  south  of  Mexico,  you  have  an 
Asiatic  fauna  and  flora  pouring  into  Colombia,  Peru, 
Venezuela,  Guiana,  Brazil,  Bolivia,  the  Argentine  and 
Patagonia.  But  many  of  these  wonderful  things  only 
hurried  over  the  Central  American  Isthmus,  and  did 
not  rest  till  they  made  a  new  home  in  South  America. 
Do  you  twig  ?  Or  does  all  this,  which  so  helps  to  heal 
my  wounded  mind,  simply  bore  you  ? 

I  had  quite  a  thrill  after  leaving  Costa  Rica  (where, 
as  I  said,  the  earthquakes  upset  my  plans  and  checked 
my  enthusiasm)  in  exploring  the  wonderful  Nicaraguan 
flora  for  possible  drug-producing  trees  and  plants. 
It  has  done  much,  together  with  anxiety  about  food 
and  lodging,  mosquitos  and  vampire  bats,  ticks  and 
extraordinary,  bloodthirsty  bugs  (the  Bug  Order  is 
At  Home  in  warm  America!)  to  rouse  me  from  my 
despairing  grief  and  give  me  a  further  interest  in  life. 

Here  are  a  few  out  of  the  five  hundred  striking  fea- 
tures in  the  amazing  vegetation,  produced  by  a  hot 
sun  and  an  excessive  rainfall  out  of  a  volcanic  soil : 

Huge  fig  trees — "  Higuerones  " — with  whitish-grey, 
smooth  branches,  very  dark-green  foliage,  pale-yellow, 
small  figs,  not  eatable  by  man;  but  these  trees  provide 
the  traveller  with  such  complete,  clean  shade,  that  I 
always  fancy  insects  are  less  troublesome  'in  their 
vicinity. 

Clumps  of  Royal  palms  with  superb  fronds  and 
tall,  smooth,  whitish  trunks;  the  ordinary  coconuts 
(whether  native  or  not — I  cannot  say),  and  an  allied 
species  the  sap  of  which  is  a  native  "  wine  "  ;  also  low- 
growing  Acrocomia  wine  palms  along  the  river-sides 
or  in  the  hills. 

Cedrela  odorata,  an  ally  of  the  Mahogany  tree  (also 
found  here)  which  has  a  deliciously-per fumed,  dark- 
coloured  timber.  The  Cortes  or  Cortesa  tree,  a  species 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  277 

of  Tecoma  (with  relations  in  India).  The  Cortes  has 
wood  hard  and  black  as  ebony.  In  the  rainy  season,  be- 
tween May  and  October,  its  leaves  fall,  but  the  whole 
tree  is  entirely  covered  with  brilliant  yellow  flowers,  so 
that  each  fully  grown  tree  makes  a  superb  dome  of 
yellow  to  be  distinguished  at  a  distance  of  four  or  five 
miles.  When  the  sun  is  on  these  domes  of  flowers  they 
are  dazzling  spectacles. 

Croton  bushes  as  large  as  lilac  trees,  with  their  masses 
of  beautifully  coloured  leaves — yellow-green-orange, 
white,  and  pink. 

The  Poro  tree,  a  species  of  Erythrina.  The  Ery- 
thrina  trees  of  the  Bean  order  are  a  joy  of  the  tropics — 
America,  India,  Africa. 

There  are  several  species  in  Central  America,  but 
the  largest  and  most  noteworthy  is  the  common  Poro. 
This  is  mostly  leafless  in  the  summer,  with  smooth, 
grey  branches;  but  en  revanche  it  is,  through  all  the 
rainy  months,  covered  with  tufts  and  masses  of  superb 
flowers  of  crimson-scarlet,  each  two  to  three  inches 
long.  Imagine  the  effect  of  these  colour-masses  against 
a  cobalt  sky  and  ask  yourself  whether  they  may  not  be 
some  small  degree  of  solace  against  such  sadness  as 
mine !  They  are  also  eccentric  as  well  as  gorgeous,  for 
their  seed  vessels  are  enormous,  almost  like  a  Panto- 
mime property — immensely  prolonged,  corrugated  bean- 
pods,  the  beans  of  Brobdingnag ! 

Mimosa  trees  with  foliage  like  a  maidenhair  fern. 

Poinsettia  bushes.  The  Poinsettia  is  a  kind  of  Eu- 
phorbia. It  has  small,  red,  and  yellow  flowers,  but 
surrounding  these  are  the  crimson  leaf-bracts  which 
make  it  such  a  gorgeous  spectacle.  But  you  have  it 
in  the  greenhouses  at  Chacely.  Here  it  grows  like  a 
weed  and  makes  the  outskirts  of  the  forest  very  showy. 

The  hedges  and  roadside  growth  are  full  of  colour 
and  effect  with  large  white  begonias,  violet  mallows, 
and  an  Ageratum  which  ranges  in  tint  from  pinkish 


278  THE  VENEERINGS 

white  to  sky  blue.  A  low-growing  Salvia  (not  at  pres- 
ent in  blossom)  comes  into  flower  at  Christmas  and 
turns  open  tracts — they  say — into  sheets  of  ultramarine 
blue.  Indeed,  as  regards  seasons,  the  wet  is  scarcely 
more  wonderful  for  its  flower  displays  than  the  dry. 
All  the  year  round  one  sees  six-feet-long  sprays  of  yel- 
low, rose-colour,  white  or  brown-gold  orchid  flowers 
depending  from  the  tree  branches ;  or  orchid  spikes  of 
magenta  or  cream-colour  blossoms  rising  up  from  the 
grass. 

And  then  for  weirdness  and  fantasy,  the  Cacti !  Tree 
cacti  of  contorted  forms;  writhing  cacti  like  green 
snakes,  which  suddenly  give  birth  to  portentous  leath- 
ery blossoms  coloured  and  patterned  like  mid-nineteenth 
century  wallpapers;  tall  Cereus  cacti,  like  green  col- 
umns with  lovely,  cream-white,  scented  flowers  grow- 
ing out  at  right  angles  from  the  stem ;  small,  squat  cacti 
with  magenta  flowers  nearly  as  large  as  the  whole  plant. 
The  Bromelias  or  pineapple-like  plants  grow  on  many 
of  the  tree-trunks  and  branches,  and  with  their  won- 
derful stores  of  pure  water  in  their  crevices,  are  a  per- 
fect Providence  to  monkeys  and  birds.  Trees  of  the 
Castilloa  genus  yield  quantities  of  india-rubber.  The 
cultivated  Theobroma  tree  gives  us  the  chocolate  of 
commerce;  and  an  even  more  delicious  chocolate  is  de- 
rived from  Herrania  purpurea.  This  is  a  shrub  only 
found  in  San  Salvador  and  northern  Nicaragua.  I 
cannot  think  why  it  has  not  been  widely  propagated, 
and  am  trying  to  send  cuttings  and  seeds  home  to  your 
father.  I  am  sending  duplicates  to  Jeanne — or  rather 
to  Gaston — because  I  think  it  is  just  possible  it  might 
do  out  of  doors  in  the  lowest  and  sunniest  parts  of  our 
Pyrenees  domain. 

"  Peruvian  "  Balsam  is  another  Central  American 
plant  I  should  like  to  experiment  with,  as  a  perfume 
producer.  Its  name  is  quite  misleading;  it  does  not 
come  from  Peru,  but  mainly  from  Salvador.  The  en- 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  279 

cyclopaedias,  will  tell  you  why  it  was  misnamed :  I  have 
forgotten.  But  its  range  just  strays  into  north-west 
Nicaragua,  and  its- main  home  is  Salvador.  The  "  bal- 
sam "  is  the  thick  resin,  almost  black  when  dried  and 
like  the  most  fragrant  incense.  It  pours  from  cuts  in 
the  bark,  and  the  tall,  richly  foliaged  tree  belongs,  as 
so  many  other  good  things  do,  to  the  gracious  Bean 
order,  a  division  of  plants  so  wholly  beneficial  to  Man 
that  it  should  be  honoured  in  our  religion,  and  awarded 
the  highest  decoration  at  some  International  Exhibition. 

Don't  you  think  we  are  extraordinarily  ungrateful  to 
the  Plant  World?  I  think  the  most  highly  developed 
plants  have  a  certain  consciousness ;  they  die  "  on  " 
some  people;  they  are  touchingly  grateful  to  others. 
Look  at  the  alliance  some  plants  make  with  insects  and 
birds.  There  is,  in  Central  America,  in  the  drier  up- 
land parts,  the  Bull's  Horn  acacia  which  gives  a  home 
to  a  fierce  little  stinging  ant  in  its  enormous,  white, 
black-tipped  flattened  horns,  and  in  return  is  petted,  de- 
fended, and  generally  looked  after  by  the  ants. 

Perhaps,  however,  what  charmed  me  most  in  Nica- 
ragua was  getting  back  to  the  Pines.  It  was  like  a 
foretaste  of  Europe,  a  suggestion  of  the  Pyrenees.  I 
did  not  distingiush  more  than  one  species — I  think  it  is 
Pinus  tenui  folia — but  I  dare  say  there  are  one  or  two 
other  conifers  above  six  thousand  feet.  But  Pinus 
tenui  folia  makes  its  appearance  as  low  down  as  about 
four  thousand  feet  and  rules  the  forest  above  that  in  a 
lordly  way,  like  a  dominating  European  colonist,  only 
permitting  the  rivalry  of  evergreen  oaks. 

The  pine  trees  are  very  aromatic :  one  feels  extraor- 
dinarily "  well  "  travelling  under  them,  as  you  can  do 
with  delicious  freedom;  for  they  allow  nothing  else, 
save  a  little  bracken,  to  grow  beneath  their  shade.  Be- 
low the  pines  the  Tillandsia  creeper — "  Spanish  moss  " 
(really  a  kind  of  pineapple!!) — festoons  many  of  the 
trees  with  its  grey  wisps  and  curtains;  and  a  kind  of 


28o  THE  VENEERINGS 

prickly-pear  cactus  grows  to  a  height  of  twenty  or 
thirty  feet. 

But  all  that  seems  foreign.  What  gives  one  the  de- 
licious illusion  of  home  are  the  not-too-crowded  for- 
ests of  pines  through  which  a  European  atmosphere 
circulates. 

This  long  letter  must  content  you  for  the  present. 
If  I  write  you  again  before  I  come  home  I  will  tell  you 
about  the  insects,  the  birds  and  beasts  I  have  met  in 
these  travels.  I  shall,  if  it  is  not  too  difficult,  earth- 
quaky,  and  dangerous,  travel  from  the  north  of  Nica- 
ragua into  Salvador  and  then  through  Honduras  to  the 
British  colony  of  that  name;  and,  so — home.  Mean- 
time I  hope  the  little  child  will  prosper  under  your  kind 
care — its  survival  has  been  a  miracle — and  that  some 
time  next  year  I  shall  be  among  you  again. 

Yours  affectionately, 

MERVYN. 

Chacely  Priory, 

nr.  Tewkesbury. 
November  20,  1890. 
DEAR  MERVYN, 

We  haven't  heard  from  you  for  some  time, 
but  I  somehow  feel  you  are  getting  better.  I  suppose 
you  are  right  in  your  assumption  that  it  requires  at 
least  a  year's  absence  from  home  to  heal  your  grief? 
Our  business,  however,  is  extending  so  considerably 
that  we  must  increase  our  partnership  to  cope  with  it. 
I  noticed  in  one  of  your  last  letters  (May  12)  you 
hinted  your  return  might  further  be  delayed  by  a  jour- 
ney through  the  United  States  to  see  Crabtree  and 
Corness  about  your  Central  American  discoveries.  Our 
partnership  is  at  present  confined  to  you  and  me  and 
Madison  Corness.  I  am  now  fifty-nine.  I  think,  un- 
less the  electors  turn  me  out,  I  shall  stop  in  Parliament 
till  about  the  end  of  the  century,  certainly  no  longer. 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  281 

But  I  cannot  combine  Parliamentary  work  for  any  ex- 
tended period  with  strenuous  and  absorbing  labours  in 
Mincing  Lane  or  with  careful  experiments  at  Chacely. 
In  fact,  after  sixty,  I  ought  to  be  relieved  of  office  work 
altogether.  I  must  enjoy  myself  a  little ! 

I  propose  making  Gaston  a  partner  straightaway; 
and  negotiating  with  his  father  for  the  virtual  inde- 
pendence (yet  close  co-operation)  of  the  French  firm 
(you  might  become  a  director  of  that).  And  I  should 
like  to  add  eventually  to  our  partnership  here,  George 
Sampson,  so  long  the  firm's  faithful  cashier.  We 
ought  really  to  have  done  this  a  year  or  two  ago,  but 
other  things  have  distracted  me. 

You  must  bear  in  mind  your  eventual  succession  to 
the  Headship  of  the  firm.  In  course  of  time  you  will 
marry  again.  I  am  sure  Hetty  would  have  wished  it. 
You  may  have  a  son,  and  he,  in  further  process  of 
events,  should  strengthen  the  Veneering  connection 
with  our  discoveries  and  inventions. 

Dear  boy,  the  death  of  Hetty  has  wounded  me  in  the 
spirit  nearly  as  much  as  you :  wounded  me,  embittered 
me,  infuriated  me.  I  ask  myself — vainly — why  I 
placed  her  in  London  at  that  period,  why  I  agreed  to 

Dr. being  her  accoucheur,  why  I  allowed  her — so 

far  as  my  influence  went — to  visit  women's  hospitals 
at  that  stage  in  her  life.  But  such  "  whys "  and 
"  wherefores  "  are  fruitless.  As  some  consolation  I 
have  resolved  to  devote  my  energies  and  spare  time  to 
the  study  of  germ  diseases — as  they  are  now  called — 
and  to  the  complete  extirpation  or  infallible  cure  of 
puerperal  fever.  You  know  the  history  of  the  investi- 
gation of  this  malady  of  childbirth?  How  it  was  first 
grappled  with  by  Semmelweiss  in  the  'fifties  in  Vienna 
or  Pesth;  how  he  showed  it  to  be  due  to  Septicaemia. 
But  a  certain  number  of  women  still  die  of  it  every 
year  in  London  and  in  other  big  cities;  even  some 
women  like  Hetty,  who  should  have  been  protected 


282  THE  VENEERINGS 

against  infection  and  stupidity.     I   fear  in  our  case 
either  doctor  or  nurse  was  to  blame.  .  .  . 

Am  I  wrong  in  reviving  this  core  of  your  sorrow? 
If  so,  forgive  me. 

We  are  on  the  eve,  I  believe,  of  a  mighty  enlargement 
of  human  knowledge — which  may  now  come  in  leaps 
and  bounds — concerning  those  exceedingly  minute  or- 
ganisms that  are  the  causes,  the  base  of  most  diseases. 
It  is  shocking  to  think  of  the  death,  from  typhoid,  of 
Lady  Rosebery  (which  occurred  yesterday),  shocking 
because  she  did  a  great  deal  of  good  and  because  ty- 
phoid ought  to  be  first  preventable  and  secondly  cur- 
able in  any  one  under  sixty  years  of  age. 

I  shall  await  your  drug  samples  and  botanical  col- 
lections with  the  greatest  interest,  and  so  will  the  peo- 
ple at  Kew. 

Reggie  has  had  the  time  of  his  life  (he  tells  me) 
shooting  big  game  in  Mashonaland.  Alas!  He  be- 
longs to  the  old-fashioned  type  that  cares  only  to  kill, 
cares  nothing  for  the  life-study  of  mammals  and  birds. 

Well !  I  had  better  close  this  letter  here :  I  seem  to 
be  in  rather  a  grumbling  mood.  I  should  like  to  close 
it,  however,  on  the  assertion  that  Madison  is  a  right 
down  good  fellow  and,  in  your  absence  and  my  two 
sons'  defection,  I  should  be  lost  without  him. 

Come  home  soon,. my  dear  boy. 

Your  affectionate  father-in-law, 

JOHN  HARMON. 

Ocotal, 
River  Coco, 
Nicaragua. 
Deer.  2,  1890. 
DEAREST  ELIZABETH, 

Write  a  line — will  you  ?  to  Jeanne  and  tell  her 
I  got  her  most  informative  letter  about  what  Gastpn 
and  she  were  doing  at  the  Gave  d'Aspe  and  it  encour- 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  283 

aged  me  much.  I  will  reply  to  it  from  Honduras,  when 
I  get  in  touch  with  the  post  again.  Or  perhaps  not 
until  I  get  to  British  Honduras,  whence  the  mail  service 
will  be  more  certain. 

Here  for  your  amusement  and,  I  humbly  hope,  your 
interest  are  the  rest  of  my  rough  notes  on  Nicaragua. 
In  my  last  letter  I  told  you  something  about  its  flora; 
now  for  its  visible  fauna. 

I  say  "  visible  "  because  I  have  only  time  and  space 
to  deal  with  large  things  or  the  visible  small  things 
which  absolutely  thrust  themselves  on  one's  attention. 
I  dare  say  there  are  microscopic  animalcules  of  the 
highest  importance  which  at  present — till  Man  has 
full  power — hold  the  fate  of  Nicaragua  in  their  hands 
or  jaws. 

The  first  thing  a  scientific  man  ought  to  notice  in 
this  country  or  adjacent  parts  of  Central  America  is 
a  species  of  Peripatus  like  a  long,  large,  handsome, 
silky,  pleasant-dispositioned  caterpillar.  Peripatus  re- 
sembles very  closely  the  original  form  of  some  many- 
legged  creature  which,  about  twenty  millions  of  years 
ago,  originated  the  insects,  centipedes,  and  millipedes. 
It  is  a  great  privilege  to  have  met  him  and  sent  him  to 
South  Kensington  for  identification. 

It  is  not  Man  that  rules  in  Central  America,  yet,  so 
much  as  insects,  and  most  of  all  insects  the  ants.  A 
reflective  person  is  amazed  at  their  power  and  at  the 
same  time  thankful  that  they  wage  such  war  on  one 
another  and  on  the  lesser  vertebrates  that  we  are  still 
able  to  subsist.  The  most  noteworthy  types  for  inter- 
ference with  man's  comfort  are  the  awful  Army  Ants 
— Eciton  genus — and  the  Leaf -cutting  Ants  (CEco- 
doma?).  The  ordinary  Eciton  workers  are  only  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  long,  but  their  soldiers  are  longer 
and  armed  with  huge  heads  and  pincer  muzzles.  They 
seem  to  have  only  temporary  nests  and  to  lead  a  life  of 
incessant  migration,  marching  in  armies  of  thousands 


284  THE  VENEERINGS 

or  millions,  carrying  their  larval  forms  and  attacking 
and  nipping  all  living  things  along  their  line  of  route. 
They  devour  all  the  insects  and  spiders  they  meet  and 
attack;  overcome  and  eat  up  the  lizards,  small  mam- 
mals and  birds  which  cannot  get  away.  They  would 
similarly  devour  any  human  being  that  was  tied  down 
along  their  line  of  march.  Their  tremendous  raids  are 
accompanied  overhead  by  flying  birds  of  prey  which 
pounce  on  the  little  beasts  and  reptiles  or  the  large  in- 
sects running  before  the  ant  advance.  Consequently 
these  ant  armies  do  rid  the  country  of  some  of  the 
food-crop  pests. 

Some  species  of  ant  are  closely  related  with  the  econ- 
omy of  hollow  trees;  that  is  to  say  shrubs  have  been  de- 
veloped into  hollow  trees  to  suit  the  ants'  purposes  who 
live  inside  them.  The  acacia,  which  is  called  the  Bull's 
Horn  tree,  has  developed  its  huge  pairs  of  black-tipped, 
white,  hollow  thorns  as  homes  for  a  small  species  of 
angry  little  ant  which  effectually  defends  the  tree 
against  all  its  enemies  and  plays  an  important  part  in 
developing  and  cleaning  its  foliage.  And  there  is  a 
gigantic  species  of  ant  over  an  inch  long,  black  in  col- 
our and  armed  with  a  very  venomous  sting,  which  de- 
fends the  flowers  that  provide  its  honey. 

The  leaf-cutting  ants  are  a  confounded  nuisance,  es- 
pecially in  attacking  all  foreign  forms  of  vegetation 
that  are  being  introduced  for  horticulture.  Unless  pre- 
vented by  defences  of  various  kinds  they  will  soon  re- 
duce a  garden  to  ruin.  They  cut  up  the  leaves  into 
round  patches  and  carry  them  off  to  their  burrows  to 
serve  as  a  feeding  ground  for  a  minute  fungus  on 
which  the  ant  lives.  One's  larder  and  storeroom  have 
to  be  specially  protected  against  ant-raids ;  in  some  dis- 
tricts you  cannot  sit  down  to  a  meal  without  the  chance 
of  an  ant  attack.  Man  will  have  to  master  the  ant  all 
over  tropical  America  or  his  work  will  come  to  nothing. 

A  really  hateful  order  is  that  of  the  Bugs.     I  doubt 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  285 

if  anywhere  there  is  a  good  or  commendable  Bug 
(from  our  point  of  view).  Tropical  America  pos- 
sesses every  bad  and  daring  form  of  bed-bug,  which 
is  why  we  very  sensibly  sleep  in  hammocks.  Some  of 
the  bugs  are  handsome — even  gorgeous  in  colour;  but 
all  possess  a  disgusting  odour  and  some  are  positively 
venomous  in  their  probes. 

Beetles.  I  should  think  Central  America  is  the  climax 
of  Beetledom.  There  are  Megasoma  beetles  five  to  six 
inches  long,  the  bulkiest  insects  in  the  world  of  to-day ; 
there  are  Euchroma  goliath  beetles  three  and  a  half 
inches  in  length  and  vividly  green,  rose  and  purple; 
and  Scarabs,  strangely  horned,  that  measure  over  three 
inches  in  length.  There  are  fast-running  tiger-beetles, 
not  obnoxious  to  us,  because  in  pursuit  of  our  insect 
enemies;  silvery  gold  Lamellicorns ;  brilliant  metallic 
green  Chrysomelids ;  and  Longicorn  beetles  heavily 
plumed  in  their  grub  form,  like  hairy  caterpillars. 
Among  the  beetles,  I  think  it  is  only  the  weevils  that 
are  an  active  and  continual  danger  here  to  Man's 
interests. 

There  never  was  such  a  region  as  this  for  Butterflies 
and  Moths,  either  in  quantity,  or  quality  of  colour  and 
size  of  wings.  The  Timetes  butterfly,  with  downward- 
striped  brown  wings,  flies  at  certain  seasons  in  mil- 
lions— out  to  sea,  I  hope — from  north-west  to  south- 
east. The  Morpho  butterflies  measure  four  to  five 
inches  across  the  wings  and  are  either  wholly  a  metallic 
cobalt  blue,  or  the  glistening  blue  or  azure  is  relieved 
by  a  band  of  bright  yellow.  The  "  Owl  "  butterflies 
have  great  "  eyes  "of  black,  brown,  and  white  painted 
on  their  lower  wings.  Many  of  the  Papilio  genus  are 
white,  green  and  black  in  colour.  Others  are  black  and 
scarlet,  dark  and  pale  blue,  bright  orange  with  black 
borders.  On  moist,  shady  patches  of  ground  a  host  of 
gorgeously-coloured  butterflies  may  lie  like  a  scattered 
nosegay.  Then  at  some  alarm  they  will  rise  together 


286  THE  VENEERINGS 

like  a  fountain.  One  species  of  hawk-moth  measures 
twelve  and  a  half  inches  across  the  wings.  Its  body  is 
more  than  three  inches  long.  Some  of  the  day-flying 
moths  are  a  beautiful,  dark,  velvety  blue. 

In  this  region  may  be  seen  the  largest  Dragon-flies 
now  existing ;  though  I  dare  say  you  will  know  that  in 
the  Primary  epoch  there  were  dragon-flies  two  feet 
long,  with  wings  three  feet  across.  However,  to-day 
the  Megaloprepus,  with  a  body  five  inches  in  length 
and  a  wing-spread  of  seven  inches,  takes  some  beating. 
Most  of  the  large  and  small  dragon-flies  of  Central 
America  are  of  bright  colours — cobalt  blue,  violet, 
black  and  orange,  coral-red,  chestnut-brown — with  the 
gauzy  wings  boldly  marked  with  a  single  dark  blue  or 
black  spot. 

Very  often  in  scanning  the  terminal  boughs  of  trees 
or  bushes  you  will  see  a  twig  moving  and  realise  that 
you  are  looking  at  a  walking-stick  insect — an  exact 
imitation  of  a  stem  with  six  lichen-covered  branches. 
The  grasshoppers,  locusts  and  "  katydids  "  are  often 
large,  with  monstrously  ugly  horse-heads;  sometimes 
with  fat  bodies  abruptly  bent  back,  and  immensely  de- 
veloped thighs  to  their  leaping  legs. 

Wasps  are  here  in  great  numbers.  The  majority  of 
them  interfere  very  little  with  man,  except  by  building 
nests  or  cells  of  mud  inside  his  dwellings  and  stuffing 
them  with  paralysed  grubs;  but  there  is  a  small  kind  of 
wasp  or  bee  (I  always  call  a  bad  bee  a  "  wasp  ")  which 
attacks  you  when  you  approach  its  hidden  nests.  They 
settle  on  face  and  neck  but  will  only  sting  you  inside 
hair,  so  if  you  are  shaven  you  escape ! 

The  large  kinds  of  wasp,  if  you  really  infuriate 
them,  strike  direct  at  the  naked  face. 

Leaving  the  horrid  subject  of  insects,  I  might  just 
allude  to  the  beautifully  coloured  and  quaintly  marked 
tree  frogs  of  this  region.  They  are  so  beautiful  and 
so  whimsical  in  shape  and  colour  that  one  wonders  no 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  287 

fashion  for  keeping  them  as  pets  has  set  in.  All  these 
regions  of  Tropical  America  (except  the  large  West 
India  Islands)  teem  with  snakes  of  more  or  less  deadly 
nature,  boa  constrictors,  coral  snakes,  rattle  snakes,  and 
pit  vipers ;  but  they  are  scarcely  ever  to  be  seen  and  you 
hardly  ever  hear  of  a  native  being  bitten.  Central 
America  has  large  and  extraordinary  vegetarian  lizards 
— the  Iguanas — living  on  trees  by  the  waterside.  Some 
of  these  develop  leaflike  expansions  of  the  skin  which 
assimilate  them  very  much  to  the  vegetation  in  a  man's 
eyes. 

As  to  Alligators,  there  do  not  seem  to  be  any  here  in 
Central  America,  except  in  the  imagination  of  the  un- 
scientific; but  there  is  a  real  crocodile  in  all  the  large 
eastern-flowing  rivers  (not  however  very  aggressive) ; 
and  there  are  formidable  caimans  like  those  of  Brazil 
in  the  Lake  of  Nicaragua.  But  no  one  seems  to  bother 
much  about  them  as  they  do  in  Africa,  India,  Australia 
or  the  Amazon  Basin. 

In  fact,  I  don't  know  that  after  insects  one  thinks 
much  about  other  forms  of  life  in  this  region,  save 
birds.  If  it  is  an  insect  country  it  is  also  Bird-land.  I 
must  remember  time  and  collecting  duties  and  meals 
and  the  weight  of  letters,  so  I  can't  go  into  many 
details.  I  can  only  mention,  hurriedly,  the' amazingly 
beautiful  Quetzal  Trogon  which  just  extends  its  range 
to  the  region  where  I  am  writing.  Go  and  look  at  the 
specimens  next  time  you  are  up  in  London.  It  is  the 
male,  of  course,  that  is  so  remarkably  lovely.  Look 
also  at  the  Motmots  with  their  self-trimmed  tail- 
feathers,  the  curl-crested  Curassows,  the  screaming 
blue-and-yellow  and  scarlet-blue-and-yellow  macaws, 
the  Amazon  parrots  and  Tirika  parrakeets,  the  conures, 
and  the  tiny,  exquisitely  coloured  parrotlets.  Glance  at 
the  humming  birds — black  and  azure,  and  ruby-red, 
blazing  orange,  emerald-green,  snowy  white,  vivid  vio- 
let ;  crested,  diademed,  long  billed,  ruffed,  plumed,  gor- 


288  THE  VENEERINGS 

getted,  frilled.  Picture  them  quarrelling,  bathing, 
swooping,  hovering.  Then  the  large  and  glossy  wood- 
peckers, jet  black  with  ivory  bills  and  flaming  red 
crests ;  the  Toucans  smugly  black  and  discreetly  crim- 
son, with  beaks  like  mother  of  pearl  in  tint,  one  fourth 
as  long  as  the  bird  itself.  Or  other  and  smaller  tou- 
cans, coloured,  beak  and  body,  like  the  flowering  bushes 
on  which  they  sit.  And  bee-eaters — miracles  of  love- 
liness ;  shrikes  and  flycatchers  of  which  you  might  say 
the  same. 

Even  the  birds  of  prey  have  beauty  in  their  colouring 
or  posture,  as  well  an  invigorating  testimony  to  fierce- 
ness. The  King  Vulture  is  admittedly  the  most  charm- 
ing in  coloration  of  all  the  birds  of  prey:  a  head  and 
neck,  humorously  wattled,  of  bare  skin,  coloured 
orange,  violet,  and  crimson,  a  yellow-brown  beak,  white 
irised  eyes,  a  dark-grey  neck  ruff,  its  back  and  the 
upper  part  of  its  wings  warm  cream-colour;  cream- 
white  under  parts,  and  the  lower  wings  and  tail,  black. 
The  female,  I  must  admit,  is  disappointingly  dull- 
coloured.  The  other  vultures  are  either  black  all  over, 
including  their  naked  heads ;  or  they  have  scarlet  heads 
and  black-brown  plumage. 

Amongst  the  small  birds  the  Tanagers — a  "  low  " 
kind  of  finch — are  noteworthy  for  their  glistening- 
colour  beauty :  black  with  crimson  and  sky  blue ;  scar- 
let with  black  wings  and  tail ;  violet,  yellow,  arid  steely 
blue;  cornflower  blue  with  white,  crimson-blotted 
crests.  Yet  these  lovely  creatures  which  ought  to  be 
objects  of  worship  in  our  eyes,  and  of  thankfulness  for 
their  incessant  attacks  on  insects  harmful  to  man,  are 
becoming  the  chief  attraction  in  Central  America  for 
the  vile  plumage  hunters  from  the  United  States  and 
France.  Why  don't  you  and  your  sister  and  all  the 
women  friends  you  can  influence  rise  to  the  attack  here, 
and  only  wear  the  plumage  of  domesticated  birds ? 

As  for  the  mammals  of  this  wonderful  region,  there 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  289 

you  meet  with  disappointment.  There  are  vexatious 
and  destructive  little  opossums,  dull-witted  ugly  arma- 
dillos, black  and  white,  filthy  smelling  skunks  and  other 
large  weasels,  deer  of  small  size  with  very  simple 
antlers,  two  special  kinds  of  Tapir  restricted  to  Central 
America  in  their  range,  two  kinds  of  Peccary — an 
American  type  of  pig  very  different  from  those  of  the 
Old  World.  These  Peccaries  emit  a  scent  like  strong 
onions,  and  unless  the  scent  glands  are  at  once  cut  out 
from  a  killed  beast  the  flesh  is  uneatable.  Otherwise  it 
is  a  gamey  pork,  not  at  all  bad.  There  are,  of  course, 
all  sorts  of  rodents ;  I  think  there  are  even  one  or  two 
hares ;  but  nothing  in  this  order  of  outstanding  interest 
that  I  know  of.  A  small  wolf — a  coyote — comes  as 
far  south  as  the  uplands  of  Nicaragua  as  a  sort  of  an- 
nouncement of  North  American  claims ;  and  there  are 
three  types  of  American  monkeys — the  Spider  monkeys 
with  a  very  long  tail,  the  white- faced  Cebus,  and  the 
fearfully-howling  Mycetes. 

And  as  to  the  Human  species :  I  should  think  be- 
tween Guatemala  and  the  end  of  the  Panama  Isthmus 
there  were  about  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  more 
or  less  pure-blooded  Indians  left — yellow-olive  skins, 
long  black  head-hair,  prominent  cheek  bones,  slightly 
aquiline  noses,  long  and  bulky  bodies,  long  arms,  and 
short  legs :  usually  gentle  and  silent,  dull-seeming,  hard- 
working, credulous  devotees  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith — where  converted:  a  race  seemingly  without 
much  hope  of  salvation  save  by  marriage  with  the  half- 
Spaniard  or  the  negro.  They  are  —  generally  —  so 
plainly  ugly  and  so  without  graceful  bodily  proportions 
that  I  find  it  hard  to  interest  myself  in  their  fate, 
despite  their  sad  history  and  their  unrewarded  indus- 
try, their  love  of  birds  and  flowers.  There  are  not 
many  negroes  in  Central  America  except  in  British 
Honduras  and  on  the  east  side  of  Nicaragua  and  in 
Panama.  But  although  they  may  have  brutal,  ugly 


290  THE  VENEERINGS 

faces  (not  always)  they  have  well  proportioned,  hand- 
some bodies.  They  are  alive !  They  are  full  of  energy. 
They  are  in  touch  with  Europe,  are  in  some  way  linked 
up  with  the  white  man,  though  they  may  have  suffered 
egregiously  at  his  hands. 

There  is  a  kind  of  Spanish  aristocracy  (with  com- 
mingled Swiss,  Italians  and  French)  in  Costa  Rica,  in 
Nicaragua,  and — I  am  told — in  Guatemala;  white  in 
blood  and  in  traditions,  and  still  to  a  great  extent  the 
government  of  these  lands.  But  the  coming  governing 
population  is  of  the  Spanish-Indian  hybrid  type,  who 
will  not  recognise  any  difference  between  them  and  the 
White  Spaniard. 

This  element  is  to  blame  for  the  sickening  revolu- 
tions and  the  civil  wars  which  break  out  in  each  of 
the  republics  every  two  or  three  years;  but,  do  you 
know,  I  think  we  take  them  too  little  into  account? 
They  breed  fast;  and  even  though  there  is  a  high 
death-rate  they  are  increasing,  doubling  in  numbers 
every  ten  years.  They  are  much  more  industrious  than 
our  writers  make  out,  and  somehow  or  other  they  are 
getting  on.  They  are  going  to  be — this  rather  good- 
looking  mixture  between  Spaniard  and  Indian — the 
dominant  race  some  day,  in  many  millions,  between 
the  southern  frontier  of  the  United  States  and  Tierra 
del  Fuego.  Personally,  because  I  can  speak  Spanish 
after  a  fashion  and  because  I  am  civil  spoken,  and  even 
if  in  a  hurry  strive  not  to  show  it,  I  get  on  with  them 
very  well. 

In  the  northern  part  of  Nicaragua  there  are  many 
descendants  of  the  English  and  French  buccaneers 
from  the  West  Indies.  Their  fair  complexions  are 
very  much  tanned,  and  they  only  speak  the  corrupt 
Nicaraguan  Spanish.  Like  all  the  other  "  civilised  " 
Nicaraguans  they  are  addicted — priests  quite  as  much 
as  laymen — to  cock-fighting,  to  which  Sunday  after- 
noons are  devoted.  It  is  rather  a  blood-stained  sport, 


MERVYN'S  JOURNEYS  291 

but  not  so  cruel  in  mortality  as  has  been  made  out,  and 
after  all,  the  cocks  thoroughly  enjoy  it  and  the  way 
they  are  made  much  of.  It  is,  in  reality,  a  very  much 
"  purer  "  sport  than  our  horse-racing,  with  its  horrible 
breed  of  "  bookies  " ;  and  if  the  cocks  were  consulted 
they  would  sooner  live  and  fight  for  about  eight  years 
than  be  killed  at  one  year  old  and  roasted.  When  on 
business  bent  they  wear  smart  steel  sickles  neatly  fas- 
tened to  their  real  spurs  and  are  quite  joyously  excited 
when  these  are  being  fastened  on. 

As  to  the  "  civilised  "  houses  of  this  and  adjoining 
countries,  they  are  usually  of  only  one  storey  because 
of  earthquakes.  The  new,  "  cheap  "  house  is  frightful 
with  its  corrugated  iron  roof,  an  execrable  material 
for  ugliness,  heat,  noise,  and  other  hateful  qualities; 
yet  a  great  resister  of  rainfall.  But  the  average  decent 
house  has  a  handsome  red-tiled  roof,  and  as  the  roof 
grows  old  it  becomes  trimmed  and  variegated  by  green 
and  grey  lichens,  ferns  and  house-leeks,  tiny  cacti  and 
daisies  in  all  its  crevices  and  depressions. 

For  means  of  getting  about  we  mostly  ride  meek 
steeds  of  the  Spanish  type,  or  mules,  or  even  donkeys. 
Much  of  the  transport  away  from  the  rare  railways  is 
conveyed  by  ox-carts,  about  the  same  in  structure  and 
breed  of  oxen  as  they  were  in  Spain  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  or  under  the  Roman  Empire. 

Our  food  consists  mainly  of  cheese  made  from  cow's 
milk;  maize  cakes  ("tortillas"),  broiled  chicken,  fish 
from  rivers  or  coast,  stewed  beef,  beef -sausages,  ome- 
lettes, coffee  and  milk  with  brown  sugar,  and  bananas 
in  many  forms;  desserts  also  of  oranges,  pineapples 
and  other  tropical  fruits.  This  fare  quite  contents  me. 
In  fact,  I  want  to  express  the  opinion  in  winding  up 
that  but  for  earthquakes  and  earth-tremors  arid  its 
revolutions,  Central  America  would  come  nearer  to  the 
Earthly  Paradise  than  any  part  of  the  world  I  have 
come  to  know. 


292  THE  VENEERINGS 

And  now  I  really  must  close  or  the  post  will  refuse 
this  letter.  Give  little  Hetty  a  squeeze  and  a  kiss  for 
me,  and  believe  me 

Your  affectionate  and  grateful 
MERVYN. 

P.S.  I  have  sent  father  a  business-like  statement  of 
projected  dates  and  addresses  between  here  and  British 
Honduras;  and  the  intervening  stays  between  B.H.  and 
London.  I  expect  to  be  back  home  by  next  June. 


CHAPTER  XV 

GRAVES'S    DISEASE 

GEORGY  PODSNAP  had  not  always  been  im- 
peccably wise  since  she  came  to  live  with  Mme.  de 
Lamelle  in  the  Pyrenees,  in  1876.  Two  or  three  years 
later  she  had  taken  a  whimsical  fancy,  a  liking,  not 
even  confided  to  Mme.  de  Lamelle,  to  a  young  appren- 
tice in  a  draper's  shop  in  Oloron.  She  called  at  the 
shop,  rather  frequently,  to  make  small  purchases; 
talked  her  imperfect  French  with  the  young  draper, 
who  was  not  only  good-looking — he  came  from  Ba- 
yonne — but  pleasant-mannered  and  of  instinctive  gen- 
tility. Georgy,  being  most  anxious  at  that  time  to 
acquire  French  thoroughly,  took  to  following  a  French 
Manuel  de  Correspondance  to  master  the  exact  style  of 
writing  letters  current  in  France  in  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  She  could  not  have  found — at  any 
rate  then,  in  the  Pyrenees — any  such  guide  in  print  less 
than  twenty  years  old  in  style  and  application;  so  that 
her  drafted  letters  necessarily  had  an  old-world  ring 
about  them — suggested  crinolines  at  their  worst,  in- 
tense respect  for  the  credences  of  the  Church  of  Rome, 
devout  references  to  the  Imperial  family,  and  an  im- 
prisonment of  style  so  characteristic  of  the  France  of 
la  bienseance  in  those  days. 

Half  humorously  she  connected  with  the  name  of 
this  young  draper  the  letters  of  an  orphan  lady,  d'age 
mure,  having  only  herself  to  rely  on,  and  dealing  with 
the  respectfully-communicated  love  of  a  gentleman 
proposing  marriage  in  a  roundabout  way.  It  amused 

293 


294  THE  VENEERINGS 

and  rather  thrilled  her  in  her  own  sitting-room,  with 
her  gilded  walnut  desk,  and  generally,  while  her  elder 
companion  was  having  a  nap,  to  deal  with  the  supposi- 
titious case  of  the  young  draper.  Supposing — just  for 
fun — he  should  really  have  taken  a  liking  to  her,  after 
their  constant  conferences  over  embroidery  designs  and 
coloured  silk  threads  for  executing  floral  embroideries. 
Supposing  he  should  have  become  so  utterly  mad  as  to 
imagine  for  one  minute  she  could  leave  her  beloved 
Sophie  to  become  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren, and  to  put  some  of  her  money  into  his  drapery 
business,  and  that,  risking  all,  he  dared  to  put  these 
aspirations  into  French  writing:  how  should  she  an- 
swer him,  with  dignity,  yet  without  cruelty,  and  in  a 
French  which  no  one  could  mock  at  as  the  French  of  a 
foreigner? 

So  while  her  friend  slept,  or  more  likely  read  a 
rather  risque  novel  in  undress  on  a  comfortable  couch, 
with  her  stays  off,  Georgy  wrote  these  letters,  unfor- 
tunately with  the  name  attached  of  the  prepossessing 
young  draper.  Several  of  them  she  tore  up,  becoming 
conscious,  as  she  progressed,  of  painful  errors  in  spell- 
ing and  grammar;  but  two  or  three  of  her  drafts 
seemed  so  good,  so  faultless  and  dignified  in  style,  that 
she  was  seduced  by  an  author's  vanity  to  preserve  them, 
as  she  thought,  in  the  secret  drawer  of  her  desk — an 
article  of  furniture  which  her  mother  had  given  her  as 
a  present  on  her  twenty-first  birthday. 

But  either  she  left  one  or  two  of  these  drafts  in  a 
blotting  book,  or  in  an  album  of  vie^s,  or  an  old  school 
atlas,  or  the  maid  who  dusted  the  room  had  for  long 
amused  herself,  when  they  were  out  at  the  plantations, 
by  opening  the  desk  (almost  any  small  key  would  do 
that)  and  running  an  experienced  eye  over  Mademoi- 
selle's affairs.  Two  of  these  letters  got  abstracted  and 
found  their  way  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  Aristide 
Boucanesse.  He  was  aflame  with  ambition.  The  age 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  295 

— presumably  well  under  forty — of  Mademoiselle  mat- 
tered nothing — elle  etait  Anglaise,  et  il  aimait  beau- 
coup  les  Anglais — there  was  no  need  for  her  to  con- 
cern herself  with  the  wretched  shop  of  his  patron:  at 
Bayonne  leurs  affaires  pouvaient  s'evoluer.  II  y  con- 
naissait  un  etablissement 

These  tumultuous  phrases  were  poured  out  to  a  calm 
and  dignified  Mme.  de  Lamelle,  who  had  consented  to 
see  him  (Georgy  in  terror  having  locked  herself  into 
her  two  rooms).  She  explained  that  the  English  were 
like  that.  She  herself  was  not  English — Irish,  and 
now  French ;  but  there  were  qualities  in  that  people  one 
had  to  admire,  traits  de  caractere,  cependant,  qu'il  y 
avait  a  regretter.  C'etait  un  jeu,  difficile  a  expliquer, 
but  the  person  who  had  put  before  .  .  .  Monsieur?—- 
pardon — Monsieur  Boucanesse's  eyes  these  portions  of 
the  game  had  acted  with  the  grossest  indiscretion. 
She  could  understand  the  pain  this  must  have  caused 
Monsieur,  especially  as  he  was  commonly  supposed  to 
be  engaged  to — to — his  patron's  niece.  Monsieur 
would  do  well  to  forget  the  absurdity  and  to  return  the 
letters  which  were  without  addressed  envelopes  and 
had  evidently  been  abstracted  from  Mademoiselle  Pod- 
snap's  appartement.  II  y  aurait  une  enquete  a  faire 
la-dessus,  and  it  would  be  preferable  for  Monsieur,  at 
his  age  and  in  his  condition,  to  be  unconnected  in  any 
way  with  such  an  inquiry.  The  police  were  severe  on 
any  young  man  who  made  use  of  such  a  coincidence  to 
annoy  strangers  of  distinction 

A  few  other  pu  ases  suggesting  ever  so  slightly  and 
delicately  that  this  stately  lady,  despite  her  un-Pyre- 
nees  style  of  pronouncing  French,  was  not  without 
police  acquaintances,  sufficed  to  reduce  to  nothing  the 
hopes  and  projects  of  Monsieur  Aristide.  He  returned 
sulkily  to  his  work  at  the  shop,  having  somehow  been 
hypnotised  into  leaving  behind  the  two  letters  involving 
la  richissime  Anglaise  in  his  heart's  affairs. 


296  THE  VENEERINGS 

But  shortly  afterwards  Mme.  de  Lamelle  called  there 
and  had  a  talk  with  his  patron;  the  marriage  with  the 
patron's  niece  became  thereafter  a  matter  of  the  imme- 
diate future,  and  before  Mme.  de  Lamelle  and  Miss 
Podsnap  departed  on  a  customary  tour,  M.  Aristide 
Boucanesse  had  received  from  her  and  from  Miss  Pod- 
snap  a  wedding  present  of  fifty  pounds,  in  acknowl- 
edgement of  M.  Boucanesse's  assistance  to  the  last- 
mentioned  lady  in  transcribing  the  Basque  songs  of 
the  Pyrenees. 

Then  there  followed  years  of  increasing  industry 
and  happiness  in  which  Georgy  learnt  to  ride — after  a 
fashion,  learnt  to  help  greatly  in  the  business  of  the 
botanical  plantations,  became  and  showed  herself 
greatly  interested  in  the  affairs  of  Harmon,  Veneering 
and  Co.,  and  notably  of  Mervyn  Veneering.  She  and 
her  friend  were  present  at  Mervyn's  wedding,  as  al- 
ready related.  When  Mervyn  brought  his  wife  to  stay 
with  him  at  the  Gave  d'Aspe  plantation  after  their 
honeymoon,  Georgy 's  interest  in  and  close  connection 
with  the  Gave  d'Aspe  became  intensified.  Then  came 
the  departure  of  Mervyn  and  his  wife  for  London, 
Hetty's  restricted  life  in  London,  and  the  substitution 
of  Jeanne  and  Gaston  for  Mervyn  and  Hetty  at  the 
Gave  d'Aspe. 

Jeanne  was  a  perfect  dear,  and  Mervyn's  sister,  and 
she  had  first  two  children  and  then,  in  1889  and  1891, 
two  more,  so  that  she  was  a  good  deal  occupied  with 
her  nursery  and  less  with  drug  cultivation.  Under 
Gaston  the  business  took  great  extensions.  The  Scot- 
tish botanist  reverted  to  the  service  of  the  London  firm 
and  was  sent  to  the  highlands  of  the  Madras  province, 
and  French  botanists  took  his  place,  who  had  no  diffi- 
culty whatever  in  communicating  the  results  of  their 
observations  and  experiments  to  their  French  col- 
leagues. Jeanne  was  the  greatest  dear;  of  that  Georgy 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  297 

was  obstinately  convinced;  but  Gaston — Gaston  after 
the  first  few  weeks  of  politeness  and  cap-lifting  and 
jolly  chaff  seemed  to  betray  a — a — little  impatience 
and  brusquerie  when  this  elderly  young  lady  (she  was 
then  forty-seven — let  us  suppose — and  did  not  realise 
it),  when  this  "  vieille  fille  d'Londres  "  trotted  about 
the  paths  and  lanes  of  the  plantations,  uninvited,  un- 
expected, and  full  of  amiable  inquiries. 

No  doubt  some  things  were  not  doing  quite  so  well 
since  Mervyn  had  left.  But  that  was  more  immedi- 
ately the  affair  of  the  new  managers,  and  these  ques- 
tions, uttered  in  French  with  a  very  English  accent  a  la 
longue  se  porterent  sur  les  nerfs  and  answers  were 
short  or  wanting. 

Mme.  de  Lamelle  guessed  much  of  this  without  being 
told,  or  occasionally  had  a  straight  tip  from  Gaston, 
who  himself  immensely  respected  the  intelligence  and 
strength  of  the  old  lady.  So  Georgy  was  adroitly  kept 
away  from  the  Gave  d'Aspe  and  occupied  with  Pau 
problems,  or  with  little  journeys,  or  visits  to  England. 
But  the  death  of  Hetty,  the  utterly  cruel  sequel  to  the 
wedding  so  happily  ushered  in  at  Chacely  in  the  Christ- 
mas of  1887,  had  turned  her  thoughts  once  more 
towards  diseases  and  their  cure,  and  specially  the  dis- 
eases of  women.  She  herself,  at  the  beginning  of  1891 
had  reached  a  stage  in  life  when  the  woman's  consti- 
tution is  undergoing  a  change,  a  retredssement,  as  her 
French  doctor  delicately  phrased  it.  She  devoted  her- 
self with  more  assiduity  than  ever  to  the  study  of 
medical  works,  suspected  her  perfectly  healthy  body  of 
this  and  that  tendency,  sighed  at  the  thought  of  an 
approaching  death  in — say — three  years. 

Somewhere  about  April,  1891,  she  had  arrived  at 
the  dreadful  conclusion  that  she  was  suffering  from 
Graves's  Disease.  Who  "  Graves  "  was  and  whether 
it  was  Mr.  or  Mrs.,  her  bulky  Manual  did  not  inform 
her;  but  there  was  an  alternative  title  which  took  it 


298  THE  VENEERINGS 

away  from  being  the  exclusive  property  of  the  Graves 
family.  If  you  were  learned  you  called  it  "  Exophthal- 
mic goitre." 

She  shuddered  at  the  sub-title.  Goitres  were  things 
that  she  connected  with  the  lower  classes  in  Switzer- 
land and  the  Pyrenees.  That  some  form  of  goitre,  and 
that  an  ultimately  dangerous  one,  should  have  attacked 
her,  surrounded  by  every  comfort,  was  lamentable. 
Yet  here  were  the  "  flushings  and  shiverings,"  the 
neuralgic  headaches,  hypersesthesia — which  her  diction- 
ary told  her  meant  "  exaggerated  sensibility  " — ver- 
tigo, hallucinations  of  sight — had  she  not  mistaken  the 
postman  for  Joseph  the  other  day? — or  hearing; 
tremors  of  the  hands,  thyroid  enlargement — that  was 
evident  by  looking  in  the  glass — and  exophthalmus  or 
protrusion  of  the  eyeballs.  She  further  saw  in  the 
Manual  that,  had  she  not  been  properly  brought  up — 
the  qualification  was  hers — she  would  have  exhibited 
"  perverted  sensations  of  love."  As  to  the  exophthal- 
mus, she  was  nearly  certain  it  already  affected  her 
rather  prominent  eyes,  but  it  was  best  detected  by 
seating  a  patient  in  a  chair  and  standing  behind  him  or 
her  to  look  down  the  forehead.  .  .  .  Ulceration  of  the 
cornea  took  place  later  on  and  affirmed  the  condition. 

The  book,  even,  didn't  say  "  him  or  her."  It  said 
"  her  "  because  this  was  practically  a  female  disease, 
over  95  per  cent,  of  the  cases  arising  in  connection 
with  feminine  disorders.  There  was  Mcebius's  sign — 
"  insufficient  convergence  of  the  two  eyes  when  looking 
at  a  near  point " — and  she  had  always  exhibited  a 
tendency  to  squint,  especially  when  mentally  upset. 

An  early  recognition  of  this  disease  was  very  im- 
portant, if  you  hoped  for  a  cure.  A  certain  Denton 
Cardew  had  thought  that  galvanism — she  remembered 
dimly  galvanism  in  connection  with  the  Polytechnic  of 
her  youth — galvanism  was  the  best  treatment.  But 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  299 

alas! — another   doctor   had   said   this   increased   the 
growth  of  the  vascular  excitement. 

Patients  sometimes  suffered  from  Epistaxis,  which, 
however,  was  a  not  unfavourable  sign.  What,  oh  what, 
was  Epistaxis?  A  dictionary  told  her  it  was  nose- 
bleeding.  But  that  settled  it !  Her  nose  had  frequently 
bled  of  late.  All  heroic  silence  as  to  her  condition  here 
gave  way,  and  she  sought  her  friend  and  sobbingly 
told  her  of  her  grave  condition. 

"  Nonsense ;  many  times  nonsense,  my  dear  Georgy, 
said  Mme.  de  Lamelle,  when  these  fears  were  com- 
municated one  day  in  early  May,  1891.  "  You  are 
entering  on  a  new  stage  in  life  which  all  women,  who 
outlive  their  youth,  have  to  pass  through,  and  presently 
you  will  be  stronger  and  happier  than  ever.  Do  look 
at  yourself  in  the  glass,  my  dear,  if  you  doubt  my 
opinion.  You  are  a  little  too  stout  for  your  height ;  I 
think  p'raps  your  eyes  are  a  little  strained  by  reading 
without  glasses;  and,  as  there  is  no  need  for  you  to 
earn  your  living  as  a  woman  doctor,  I  am  decidedly  of 
opinion  that  you  might  give  up — at  any  rate  for  a 
while,  reading  about  diseases.  We'll  go  and  see,  one 
day,  the  new  oculist  who's  come  to  Pau — about  spec- 
tacles, I  mean — if  you  must  read.  But,  as  we  are  per- 
fectly free  agents,  let's  see  something  of  the  Pyrenees 
on  the  other  side!  We've  lived  here  untold  years — 
what  is  it?  Fifteen? — and  never  crossed  into  Spain. 
All  our  travels  have  been  up  and  down  the  French  side, 
or  to  Paris,  England,  Italy.  Let's  see  something  of 
Spain,  now  all  that  silly  Carlist  business  has  died 
down. 

"  I  heard,  by  the  bye,  from  Bella  Harmon  this  morn- 
ing. Poor  Mervyn  is  coming  back.  .  .  .  Ought  to  be 
home  in  June.  Dare  say  he'll  be  over  here  in  the 
autumn,  to  see  how  things  are  getting  on.  He'll  be 
surprised  at  the  extensions,  won't  he?  I'll  have  an- 


300  THE  VENEERINGS 

other  slice  of  pineapple — really,  they  are  very  good. 
.  .  .  Come  from  Marseilles,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  Only  des- 
sert you  can  get  this  time  of  year.  I  think  we  ought 
to  make  digestive  tabloids  out  of  pineapple.  Chemists 
say  its  juice  is  very  eupeptic.  You  can  give  me 
another  cup  of  coffee." 

Georgy:  "  Here's  your  pineapple ;  and — here's — your 
coffee.  ...  I  see  the  Empress  Eugenie  is  in  Aragon; 
left  her  yacht  at  Barcelona,  to  stay  at  some  Spanish 
chateau." 

Mme.  de  Lamelle:  "  Well,  /  saw  it  before  you  did. 
When  I  was  looking  at  the  Gazette  de  Pan  over  my 
petit  dejeuner.  And  I  thought  —  do  you  remember 
those  extraordinary  days  of  the  Paris  Exhibition? 
Eighteen  sixty-seven  ?  which  seem  removed  from  us  by 
centuries! — I  thought,  even  if  we  only  had  a  glimpse  of 
her,  it  would  be  interesting,  worth  the  journey.  .  .  . 
I'm  getting  near  seventy,  do  you  know?  Shall  be 
seventy  in  September.  P'raps  after  seventy  I  may  be- 
come too  stiff  for  adventurous  journeys.  Besides,  I  am 
looking  forward  to  seeing  Mervyn  in  the  summer  or 
autumn.  ...  I  vote  we  go  to  Spain  now  and  return 
by  Barcelona  and  Perpignan.  Then  we  can  look  at 
Gaston's  new  plantations  in  the  Eastern  Pyrenees. 
Much  more  sun  but  much  less  rain.  However,  I  hear 
they  are  a  great  success." 

Georgy:    "All  right!     When  shall  we  go?" 

Mme.  de  Lamelle:  "  To-day's  Friday.  Let's  start 
Tuesday.  .  .  .  Tuesday's  my  lucky  day.  We'll  drive  in 
to  the  station  this  afternoon.  You  might  tell  Joseph 
when  you  write  out  the  orders — and  make  inquiries." 

Accordingly,  on  the  Tuesday  following,  they  started 
from  Pau,  joined  the  Paris-Madrid  express  at  Bay- 
onne,  and  left  it  at  Alsasua  to  diverge  to  Pamplona. 

Here  they  stayed  some  days.  Georgy  was  enrap- 
tured with  its  picturesqueness,  but  Mme.  de  Lamelle 
commented  rather  caustically  on  the  fleas  of  the  Cathe- 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  301 

dral  and  its  disheartening  mixture  of  Gothic  and 
eighteenth-century  Corinthian  architecture.  They 
went  to  see  a  bull-fight  in  the  great  arena,  amid  an 
audience  of  seven  or  eight  thousand  shouting,  swear- 
ing, laughing,  gesticulating  Basques  and  Navarrese: 
Georgy  was  inexpressibly  pained  at  the  cruelties  in- 
flicted by  the  bulls  on  the  picadors'  horses,  by  the 
final  death-thrust  delivered  to  the  gallant  bulls,  and,  a 
little  less,  by  the  tossing  of  a  picador  and  the  shriek  he 
uttered  when  his  arm  was  broken.  Mme.  de  Lamelle 
bore  the  ordeal  more  stoically,  because  Georgy  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  completely  her  own  state  of  health  in 
her  indignation  over  Spanish  cruelties. 

From  Pamplona  they  passed  down  the  line  to  the 
great  city  of  Zaragoza;  strange  mixture  of  tortuous, 
narrow  streets,  lined  with  lofty  walls  of  Aragonese 
palaces,  roughly  paved;  and  broad,  straight,  modern, 
sunny  avenues  of  modern  shops  and  business-houses, 
hotels  and  cafes :  the  nineteenth  century  brought  close 
up  against  the  fourteenth.  Zaragoza  was  delightful  in 
May,  almost  the  only  month  out  of  the  twelve  wherein 
it  is  tolerable  in  temperature,  neither  frying  hot  nor  icy 
cold.  In  May,  performances  had  begun  in  the  roofless 
theatres  under  the  stars  and  the  moon;  the  air  was 
scented  with  lilac  and  syringa;  from  six  p.m.  to  mid- 
night there  was  an  undercurrent  of  music,  especially  in 
the  old  and  mysterious  part  of  the  town.  The  shops 
were  so  attractive,  the  service  in  them  so  civil  that  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  spend  money  on  things  you  did  not 
want.  Sophie  and  Georgy  naturally  thought  from 
these  qualities  of  Zaragoza  in  May  that  it  was  quite 
the  nicest  place  in  the  world,  whereas 

The  day  after  their  arrival  they  hired  a  comfortable 
landau  at  their  comfortable  hotel  and  drove  through 
and  round  the  town  and  out  into  the  country  in  the 
plain  of  the  Ebro.  At  a  place  on  the  road  some  three 
miles  beyond  the  city's  suburbs,  where  a  group  of 


302  THE  VENEERINGS 

caroub  trees  gave  shade,  they  saw  a  party  of  four 
people  standing  and  strolling  round  a  carriage  and  a 
pair  of  unusually  fine,  well-groomed  horses.  Seem- 
ingly there  had  been  a  slight  accident  to  the  carriage, 
the  snapping  of  a  shaft,  nothing  very  serious,  and  the 
trouble  was  being  tranquilly  repaired  by  the  coachman, 
while  a  lackey,  in  a  well-cut,  sombre  livery,  held  the 
horses.  The  four  people  who  had  got  out  to  look  about 
them  and  glance  at  the  great  dusty  plain  and  the  dis- 
tant city,  consisted  of  a  rather  obese,  pale-faced  gentle- 
man, with  a  brown-grey  moustache  and  whiskers,  an 
arched  nose,  and  rather  cruel  eyes;  a  spare-figured, 
alert  man  of  advanced  middle  age,  with  a  grey  mous- 
tache and  beard  and  keen,  dark  eyes;  a  handsome 
blonde  woman  of  about  thirty-five  with  insolent  blue 
eyes ;  and  a  much  older  woman  of  an  indefinable  state- 
liness,  neither  short  nor  tall,  with  a  well-proportioned 
figure  and  a  face  which  the  beholder  seemed  to  have 
seen  many  times  before  in  old  associations :  a  face  of 
undeniable  beauty,  though  the  eyes  had  heavy  lids,  the 
hair,  under  some  suggestion  of  a  widow's  hat,  was 
grey,  and  the  nose  bridge  what  one  might  call  undu- 
lating ;  but,  however  you  criticised  it,  an  arresting  face 
of  remarkable  distinction. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  Mme.  de  Lamelle's  mind  as  to 
the  identity  of  this  figure :  the  sight  of  it  —  she  had 
stopped  her  carriage  and  her  eyes  were  for  a  few  sec- 
onds interlocked  with  those  of  this  elderly  lady — re- 
called the  opening  of  the  Paris  Exhibition,  in  April, 
1867,  the  unrehearsed  stay  of  the  Imperial  couple  be- 
fore her  stall  at  the  Loge  de  Beam,  the  ball  at  the 
British  Embassy,  when  their  eyes  had  again  met  and 
she  had  exerted  all  her  will  power  over  the  vacillating 
Deirdre  O'Connor. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  younger  Spanish  lady,  who 
was  of  that  dominating  Gothic  type  which  still  rules 
Spain. 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  303 

"  Pouvons  nous  vous  etre  de  service,  Madame  ?"  she 
asked  in  a  voice  she  strove  to  render  nonchalant. 

"  Merci,  mais  nous  n'avons  besoin  de  rien.  Mon 
cocher  a  fait  la  reparation  necessaire,  et  nous  pourrons 
continuer  jusqu'a  chez  nous." 

The  tone  was  polite  but  conclusive,  definite.  The 
hotel  coachman  turned  his  head  and  said  in  Spanish, 
and  in  a  low  voice :  "  El  Conde  y  la  Condesa  de  Mone- 
gros,"  almost  as  though  he  announced  a  royalty. 
Sophie  inclined  her  head  to  the  announcement,  but 
once  more  looked  at  the  elder  lady,  who  bowed  to  her 
with  the  gracious  dismissal  of  a  ruler.  Their  hotel 
carriage  drove  on  and  presently  she  turned  to  the  not 
much  interested  Georgy  and  said  : 

"  That  was  the  ex-Empress." 

"Oh!"  said  Georgy,  jumping  up  and  turning  her 
head  and  neck  (quite  forgetful  of  the  dangers  of 
sudden  movements  in  Graves's  Disease).  "  Oh,  do  let 
me  look !  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  the  time  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  ?  We  could  not  force  ourselves  on 
them,  unless  they  had  given  us  some  slight  encourage- 
ment. All  the  same,  it  was  very  interesting  and 
brought  back  to  me  most  vividly  the  last  time  I  saw  her 
— at  the  British  Embassy  in  Paris,  in  the  Exhibition 
year  .  .  .  1867." 

She  had  never  told  her  younger  friend  the  exact 
circumstances  of  that  evening,  of  how  she  came,  in 
what  quality,  to  be  a  seeming  guest  of  the  British  Em- 
bassy on  that  memorable  occasion.  And  it  was  just 
that  reticence  about  her  life  that  constituted  half  the 
attraction  she  possessed  in  Georgy  Podsnap's  mind. 
Georgy  had  never  been  told  any  falsehood;  she  had, 
even  in  earlier  days  and  in  moments  of  unusual  clear- 
headedness, thought,  conscientiously,  that  she  should 
have  felt  shocked  over  this  or  that  admission  or  state- 
ment made  by  dearest  Sophie.  But  the  irreconcilabil- 
ity of  all  the  known  circumstances  of  Sophie's  life, 


304  THE  VENEERINGS 

memories  now  dim,  of  seeming  difficulties  in  Sophie's 
and  Alfred's  London  life  in  the  early  'sixties  as  con- 
trasted with  Alfred's  sufficient  means  at  Monte  Carlo 
and  Sophie's  impeccable  finance  at  Oloron  and  Pau, 
and  the  respect  borne  towards  her  by  the  French  police, 
left  her  companion  with  just  a  pleasant  sense  of  mys- 
tery-never-to-be-solved about  her  friend.  The  full 
story  might  only  have  pained  her.  She  preferred  to 
draw  up,  in  dreamy  thoughts,  her  own  explanations. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  the  Empress's  or  the  British 
Ambassador's  foster-sister.  There  had  been  such 
things  as  late  as  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Or  her  Sophie — she  blushed  as  she  phrased  the 
thought — might  have  been  the — the — natural  daughter 
of  some  royal  personage,  some  connection  of  the  Em- 
press's, married  to  a  superior  kind  of  lackey — to  Alfred 
— in  short.  When  she  had  first  encountered  them  in 
London  their  name  certainly  was  spelt  Lammle.  Yet, 
for  years  and  years  and  years,  both  had  adopted  a 
French  rendering,  no  doubt  the  correct  one,  de  Lamelle. 
Harrogate,  somehow,  she  connected  hap-hazardly  with 
an  early  evolution  of  Sophie.  That  was  a  little  inex- 
plicable, because  Harrogate  in  those  days  was  com- 
pletely irreconcilable  with  Continental  romance.  Sophie 
had  had  an  aunt  at  Harrogate  whom  she  had  disliked. 
.  .  .  But  the  Empress  had  certainly  looked  long  and 
fixedly  at  her  friend — might,  perhaps,  seek  her  out 
later  at  the  hotel,  in  disguise,  and  discuss  old  state 
secrets.  The  whole  mystery,  at  any  rate,  was  so  thrill- 
ing and  romantic  that  it  banished  from  her  mind  the 
last  lingering  thoughts  of  Graves's  Disease;  and  she 
had  such  an  appetite  when  she  returned  to  the  Zara- 
goza  hotel  that  she  had  to  ask  for  chocolate  and  bis- 
cuits, since  afternoon  tea  was  still  an  impossibility  in 
unregenerate  Spain. 

As  to  the  other  party,  with  its  barouche  and  pair  of 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  305 

high-stepping  horses,  which  had  halted  under  the  clump 
of  olive  trees:  the  lady  deemed  to  be  the  Empress 
Eugenie  probably  said — half  one's  story  of  people's 
lives  has,  on  a  favourable  estimate,  to  be  guesswork — 
she  probably  said  in  Spanish  (of  which  I  supply  a 
summarised  translation)  :  "  Eugenia,  my  dear — are 
you  ready  to  go  on?  Well,  then,  Pietri,  let  us  get  in. 
Eugenia!  That  woman's  face  arrested  me,  troubled 
my  thoughts.  .  .  .  Where  have  I  seen  her  before  and 
heard  her  rather  English-sounding  French?  It  is  ex- 
traordinary, but  as  she  looked  at  me  and  when  she 
spoke,  my  thoughts  at  once  went  back  to  the  opening 
of  our  Exposition  in  1867.  .  .  .  And  not  only  that, 
but  I  seem  to  connect  her  with  a  ball  they  gave  us  at 
the  English  Embassy,  when  I  danced  with  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  We  were  very  anxious  that  night  lest  there 
should  be  any  attempt  made  by  the  Fenians.  .  .  . 
There  were  many  detectives  present.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she 
was  one  of  them.  .  .  .  She  has  a  striking  face." 

For  the  remainder  of  their  stay  at  Zaragoza,  Georgy 
was  unusually  discreet  in  regard  to  bursting  suddenly 
into  her  friend's  society  in  bedroom  or  sitting-room  lest 
she  might  surprise  her  in  shrouded  confidences  with 
the  lady  who  had  once  been  Empress  of  the  French. 
Mme.  cle  Lamelle,  however,  made  no  further  reference 
to  the  afternoon  meeting;  and,  when  three  more  days 
had  elapsed,  suggested  they  should  move  on  another 
stage  towards  the  Eastern  Pyrenees  and  Perpignan, 
where  there  might  be  letters  to  be  read  and  attended  to. 

So  the  railway  took  them  to  Tarragona,  where 
Sophie  said  she  desired  to  make  inquiries  about  the 
preparation  of  salad  vinegar,  which  she  believed  had  a 
pronounced  medicinal  effect,  but  where  also  there  were 
some  of  the  most  interesting  monuments  of  Spain,  go- 
ing back,  like  the  name,  to  Iberian  and  Carthaginian 


306  THE  VENEERINGS 

days,  and  especially  illustrating  the  power  of  Republi- 
can and  Csesarean  Rome.  The  week's  stay  in  Tarra- 
gona finally  cured  Georgy  of  any  further  anxiety  as  to 
Graves's  or  any  other  disease.  One  side  of  it  was  so 
romantic  and  the  sea  so  boisterously  bracing;  and  the 
other  side  so  businesslike,  so  full  of  cheerful  noise  and 
best  endeavour.  This  modern  town  had  a  large  British 
factory  which  did  useful  things  in  steel,  and  its  bright, 
well-educated,  good-looking  directors  came  for  their 
meals  to  the  hotel,  and  in  the  nice  way  that  people  do 
abroad,  got  into  conversation  with  the  very  intelligent 
Mme.  de  Lamelle  and  told  her  much  that  she  wanted  to 
know  about  Tarragon  Vinegar,  which  was  quite  un- 
foundedly connected  with  the  name  of  Tarragon  (be- 
ing really  "  Vinaigre  d'Estragon  "). 

Their  guide-book  told  them  more  about  Tarragon's 
truly  imposing,  Roman  history  from  two  hundred  years 
before  Christ  down  to  the  coming  of  the  Visigoths  in 
the  fifth  century  A.C.,  and  how,  even  under  the  Christian 
Goths,  it  went  on  being  Roman  till  the  Moorish  blight 
in  the  eighth  century.  Georgy  was  so  thrilled  by  the 
prehistoric,  the  Carthaginian,  the  Roman  remains;  the 
close  proximity  of  the  sea;  the  Roman  aqueduct  and 
ruined  amphitheatre ;  the  Cathedral,  which  in  the  main 
dated  from  early  Christian  times;  the  prison,  which 
was  once  a  Roman  palace  inhabited,  according  to 
Spanish  tradition,  by  Pontius  Pilate ;  and  by  the  fisher- 
men's quarter,  in  which  all  the  houses  are  painted  pale 
blue:  that  she  expressed  an  intention  of  coming  to 
Tarragona  every  year,  and  even  of  settling  there  in  its 
outer  suburbs — all  olives  and  almond  trees,  vines  and 
walnuts,  and  picturesque  country-houses  like  those  of 
Ancient  Rome — perhaps  the  style  never  died  out. 

Mme.  de  Lamelle  said  nothing  to  check  these  effu- 
sions, trusting  to  the  dulling  influence  of  time  and  the 
perfect  comfort  of  the  Pau  villa.  Nevertheless,  even 
she  had  begun  to  find  rather  trying  the  attempt  of  Mrs. 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  307 

Veneering  to  make  a  home  in  the  same  place,  and  the 
stays  with  her — longer  and  longer — of  the  sly,  pom- 
pous, fanatical  Lancelot,  with  his  aspirations  to  meddle 
in  the  haute  politique  of  the  Church  of  Rome. 

But  after  leaving  Tarragona — with  or  without  a 
settlement  of  the  vinegar  question — they  made  their 
way,  with  one  night  in  a  politically-agitated  Barcelona, 
to  Perpignan.  They  were  back  in  France,  and  even  the 
extraordinary  ancientry  of  Tarragona  could  not  check 
their  admiration  for  the  history  embalmed  in  the  build- 
ings of  Roussillon's  capital,  though  its  foundation  only 
dated  from  the  Dark  Ages. 

At  Perpignan,  also,  there  was  an  hotel  of  the  kind 
that  did  honour  to  France  in  those  days,  the  type  of 
hotel  that  almost  died  during  and  after  the  Great  War 
and  under  the  reign  of  the  char-a-banc  motor.  In  the 
latter  part  of  the  ripened  nineteenth  century  it  was 
worth  the  approximate  six  hundred  miles  of  railway 
from  Calais  merely  to  pass  one  night  at  this  hotel,  an 
experience  far  more  enlivening  and  exhilarating  than  a 
stay  at  a  royal  palace. 

Their  letters  were  in  the  Poste  Restante,  and  as  they 
had  only  been  in  telegraphic  communication  for  a 
month  since  they  left  Pau,  there  was  enough  for  them 
to  read  and  ponder  over,  laugh  at,  purse  lips  of  vexa- 
tion at,  cordially  agree  with,  pishingly  dissent  from  for 
twenty- four  hours.  At  the  end  of  two  days,  however, 
Mme.  de  Lamelle  had  got  into  communication  with 
Gaston  Dudeffrand  at  the  southern  series  of  his  com- 
pany's plantations,  in  the  valley  of  the  Tet  between 
Olette  and  Prades.  She  arranged  that  he  should  meet 
them  the  following  day  at  Prades,  that  they  should 
sleep  the  night  at  his  new  Curator's  house  and  after- 
wards drive  on  through  enchanting  scenery,  over 
mountain  roads  to  Axe,  on  the  cascaded  Ariege; 
whence  by  rail  they  might  regain  Toulouse  and  Pau. 


308  THE  VENEERINGS 

Pending  this  last  act  of  their  programme,  she  carefully 
read  through  all  her  letters. 

One  of  them,  some  ten  days  old,  was  from  Bella 
Harmon,  who  had  written  it  at  Chacely.  It  ran  thus : 

DEAREST  SOPHIE, 

Pursuant  to  your  directions  I  am  imagining  you 
at  the  end  of  your  Spanish  trip  and  arriving  at  Per- 
pignan.  All  the  places  are  merely  names  to  me.  I  tell 
John,  now  that  Mervyn  is  back — which  is  the  main 
reason  of  my  writing  to  you — I  ought  really  to  do  a 
little  travelling  and  come  out  and  see  the  great  develop- 
ment of  our  Pyrenees  stations.  Of  course  it  is  now  a 
separate  company,  and  a  French  company;  still  there 
is  something  like  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  John's 
money  in  it,  he  and  you  and  Mervyn  really  brought  the 
whole  of  this  Pyrenees  business  into  existence,  and 
John's  firm  in  London  will  sell  such  a  large  proportion 
of  its  products.  And  Mervyn  is  John's  representative 
in  the  French  firm.  I  mean  we  ought  not  to  forget 
that  John  and  you  really  brought  all  this  wonderful 
business  in  the  Pyrenees  into  existence,  though  it  is 
now  being  further  developed  by  Frenchmen,  the  lead- 
ing one  of  whom  is  married  to  poor  old  Veneering's 
daughter,  Mervyn's  sister.  I  only  recount  all  this  be- 
cause the  French  are  becoming  so  ungrateful,  all  over 
Egypt  and  over  their  silly  enthusiasm  for  Russia,  who 
will  never  help  them — really. 

Mervyn,  as  I  mentioned  —  is  back.  But  oh,  so 
changed!  Of  course  it  is  partly  the  fatigue  of  travel, 
bad  food — I  dare  say;  but  most  of  all,  his  unquench- 
able sorrow  over  Hetty's  death.  His  child  is  a  lovely 
little  creature,  so  like  what  Hetty  was  at  her  age  that 
the  sight  of  her  almost  gives  me  the  illusion  that  I  am 
back  again  in  the  middle  'sixties,  beginning  married  life 
with  little  Hetty  on  my  lap.  It  is  the  more  illusive 


GRAVES'S  DISEASE  309 

since  in  our  agony  of  grief  we  called  her  Hetty — 
Henrietta. 

Mervyn  cannot  now  be  much  more  than  twenty- 
eight,  but  when  he  arrived  here  from  Southampton  the 
other  day  he  looked  thirty-eight — very  thin  and  with 
rather  prominent  cheek-bones.  However,  he  seems 
fairly  bright,  and  was  enormously  taken  with  his  lovely 
child. 

He  seemed  to  realise  very  soon  how  much  the  child 
has  owed  to  Elizabeth's  love  and  care.  It  really  looks 
upon  her  as  its  mother.  I  couldn't  help  thinking,  as  I 
saw  the  three  of  them,  the  child  between  Mervyn  and 
my  sweet  Elizabeth  (who  after  all  is  like  a  darker, 
graver  Hetty),  how  idiotic  are  our  stupid  marriage 
laws,  how  right  and  proper  it  should  be  for  Mervyn 
and  Elizabeth  to  marry  and  bring  up  Hetty's  child; 
.and  even  of  how  such  a  thought  must  shape  itself  in 
darling  Hetty's  mind,  wherever  she  is.  But  I  suppose  I 
should  not  say  such  things,  even  to  you,  in  a  letter  I 
know  you  will  keep  to  yourself. 

In  thinking  of  that  I  also  thought  what  miracles 
Time  can  work !  How  foolishly  and  bitterly  I  used  to 
think  and  even  speak  about  you  nearly  thirty  years 
ago,  when  I  thought  you  were  coming  between  me  and 
John  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  ?  I  believe  even  in  those 
days  you  asked  me  to  call  you  "  Sophronia,"  which  I 
did  very  unwillingly.  ( How  came  you  to  have  such  an 
awful  name?)  But  now,  in  much  later  life,  how  gladly 
I  call  you  "  My  dearest  Sophie." 

I  hope  Georgy  Podsnap  has  enjoyed  her  Pyrenean 
tour,  or  rather  her  Spanish  trip,  since  I  suppose  the 
Spanish  railways  do  not  go  very  close  up  to  the 
Pyrenees.  Be  sure  you  come  and  see  us  some  time  this 
summer  or  early  autumn,  if  only  to  greet  your  much 
loved  Mervyn. 

Ever,  my  dearest,  Sophie,  Your  affectionate 

BELLA  HARMON. 


3io  THE  VENEERINGS 

Mme.  de  Lamelle,  who  was  nearly  seventy,  and  a 
hardened  cynic,  felt  her  eyelids  smarting  with  moisture 
as  she  folded  up  this  letter  and  put  it  away,  to  be 
answered  when  they  were  once  more  settled  down  at 
their  villa  outside  Pau. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MERVYN  IN   1892 

MIRIAM  CLEMENTS— in  reality  Mary  Wellings 
— had  been  away  in  America  a  good  deal  since 
the  spring  of  1889,  acting  all  over  the  States  with  an 
English  company,  diverging  into  Canada  in  the  sum- 
mer and  visiting  the  Bahamas,  Jamaica,  and  even 
Trinidad  in  the  winter;  so  that  she  considered  herself 
quite  a  travelled  person.  Her  most  successful  tour  had, 
in  reality,  been  partly  organised  and  financed  at  the 
time  by  Victor  Cochrane,  who,  through  various  suc- 
cessful ventures,  had  become  quite  a  wealthy  man,  and 
almost  a  power  in  the  States  and  Canada  by  his  influ- 
ence in  the  Press.  Soon  after  Miriam's  debut  at  New 
York,  in  May,  1889,  he  wrote  to  her  offering  to  fur- 
nish conclusive  evidence  that  his  wife  had  died  three 
years  before  at  an  asylum  near  Montreal.  Miriam  did 
not  answer  the  letter,  but  she  took  steps  discreetly  to 
verify  the  statement. 

In  June,  1889,  at  Chicago,  she  saw  him  in  the  front 
row  of  the  stalls,  had  a  passing  tremor  after  the  eye- 
glance,  but  pulled  herself  together  and  acted  with  un- 
usual brilliancy,  so  that  Chicago  went  mad  about  her. 

At  San  Francisco,  in  the  following  October,  Victor 
was  taking  a  prominent  part  in  a  Committee  of  Recep- 
tion. Miriam,  with  no  sign  of  recognition,  coldly 
shook  hands  with  him.  The  following  day  he  wrote  to 
her  and  sent  the  letter  with  an  unusually  choice  collec- 
tion of  hothouse  flowers. 

She  replied  with  curtness,  informing  him  that  she 
3" 


3i2  THE  VENEERINGS 

was  forty-one,  and  as  she  was  desirous  to  forget  the 
past  she  did  not  wish  to  be  reminded  of  it.  He  replied 
that  he  was  forty-eight,  though  unusually  sound  and 
well  for  middle  age ;  not  willing  to  forget  the  past  till 
he  had  made  full  amends  for  it ;  tout  savoir  serait  tout 
pardonner;  he  certainly  would  not  press  his  attentions 
or  without  her  permission  refer  again  to  his  ardent 
desire  to  be  legitimately  reunited  to  her.  As  an  excuse, 
even  for  the  slight  re-entry  into  her  path  of  life,  he 
would  like  to  inform  her  that  her  tour  through  the 
States,  which  was  proving  such  a  splendid  success,  was 
in  reality  of  his  arrangement  and  promotion.  Al- 
though, for  the  reasons  of  which  she  was  aware,  he 
had  had  to  leave  her  many  years  ago  (on  discovering 
that  his  wife  in  Canada  was  not  dead),  he  had  never 
ceased  in  his  successful  life  to  take  an  interest  in  her 
affairs.  He  had  put  money  into  the  enterprises  of 
Messrs.  Ratti  and  Josue,  and  in  various  other  ways 
had  discreetly  shepherded  her  great  career  as  actress 
and  manageress.  He  now  did  all  that  remained  to 
him  to  do  to  make  amends;  but  his  attentions  in  that 
direction  should  not  be  pressed.  All  he  asked  was  that, 
being  in  reality  the  principal  financier  behind  her  Amer- 
ican tour,  he  might  openly  associate  himself  with  her 
successes  and  appear  in  public  as  the  principal  organiser 
of  her  company's  presentation  of  English  comedies  in 
America. 

To  this  proposition,  as  a  business  arrangement,  she 
consented.  Victor  did  not  abuse  the  concession.  So 
much  comfort  and  rest  fulness  in  her  journeys,  rehear- 
sals, and  new  experiences  ensued,  so  much  prosperity 
resulted,  that  she  grew  to  rely  on  him  more  and  more, 
and  they  each  proposed  marriage,  one  to  the  other, 
after  the  successes  at  Toronto  and  New  York  in  the 
autumn  of  1890. 

They  were  married  with  some  quiet  splendour  at 
Grace  Church,  New  York;  Victor  Cochrane,  widower, 


MERVYN  IN  1892  313 

to  Mary  Wellings,  spinster;  and  the  British  Consul 
General  was  present  at  the  wedding.  Mary  Wellings 
— or,  if  you  prefer  the  stage  name,  Miriam  Clements — 
had  amassed  about  thirty  thousand  pounds,  which  was 
very  securely  tied  up.  Victor  Cochrane  alleged,  prob- 
ably with  truth,  that  he  had  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  At  any  rate,  he  settled  ten  thousand  on  his 
wife,  who  had  decided,  on  her  marriage,  to  retire  from 
the  stage.  The  couple  made  a  leisurely  honeymoon 
tour  through  Florida  to  the  West  Indies,  and  returned 
to  England  in  the  spring  of  1891,  preceding  Mervyn  by 
a  month. 

Mervyn  and  Miriam  did  not  meet  till  the  June  of 
that  year ;  but  after  they  had  done  so,  Miriam — Victor 
Cochrane  had  insisted  on  the  retention  in  private  life 
of  her  Syriac  name — confided  to  Bella  Harmon  that 
she  found  the  young  man  sadly  changed.  The  eager 
boyishness,  the  winsome  good  looks  had  left  him.  The 
face  looked  harder  and  leaner,  the  cheek-bones  were 
more  prominent,  the  moustache  was  more  bristly,  the 
eyes  sometimes  seemed  dulled  by  some  inward  reverie. 
The  manner,  too,  had  a  trace  of  absent-mindedness. 
It  was  too  touching  to  be  "  charming  "  to  see  him  with 
his  child  at  Chacely. 

It  was  perhaps  equally  sad  to  see  him  with  Elizabeth 
— the  hunger  for  affection  in  his  eyes,  the  uplifting  of 
his  senses  at  the  first  moment  of  her  speaking,  for  the 
voice,  like  the  smile,  was  so  strongly  reminiscent  of  the 
vanished  Hetty.  Miriam,  on  her  short  wedding  visit 
to  Mrs.  Harmon,  felt  with  her  that  it  was  actually  cruel 
that  his  country's  laws  should  forbid  Mervyn  the  one 
solace  open  to  him — marriage  with  Elizabeth  Harmon. 

But  there  it  was ;  and  realising  the  drift  of  his  feel- 
ings and  instinctively  the  reciprocity  in  Elizabeth,  Mer- 
vyn resolved  to  come  as  little  to  Chacely  as  possible  till 
years  had  gone  by  and  he  had  become  indifferent  to  the 
accents,  the  eye-glances,  the  laughter,  the  smile  that 


314  THE  VENEERINGS 

recalled  his  dead  wife.  Perhaps  he  should  have  stayed 
longer  in  America,  stayed  longer  with  the  Cornesses  or 
with  the  kindly  old  roue,  Crabtree.  Or  spent  more 
months  in  Nicaragua,  in  Honduras. 

"  I  am  wretched,  purely  wretched,"  he  exclaimed  one 
day  to  John  Harmon,  in  Mincing  Lane.  "  I  hate  the 
City  with  its  sickening,  all-day  roar  of  traffic — the 
restricted  space  here,  the  stuffy  old  drugs  in  bottles  and 
jars,  George  Sampson's  stupid  face,  his  impudent  son, 
Fletcher,  and  Ms  vulgar  cocksureness.  He  imitates  my 
old  manner — my  manner  of  eye-flashing  enthusiasm 
before  I  was  married — till  I'm  sick  of  it.  Madison,  I 
can't  quarrel  with,  because  he  only  looks  sad  when  I 
lose  my  temper.  What  am  I  to  do?  There's  nothing 
more  to  invent  in  medicine  just  now.  Our  sugar- 
coated  quinine  pellets  are  perfect.  We've  handed  over 
our  Pyrenees  experiments  to  Gaston's  company " 

"Yes,"  said  Harmon;  "but  I  got  you  nominated 
our  director  on  their  board.  Gaston's  a  splendid  chap, 
honest  and  enthusiastic.  Your  sister  has  had  a  succes- 
sion of  babies,  and  cannot  do  much  else.  I  rather  got  a 
hint  from  Sophie  de  Lamelle  the  other  day  that,  despite 
their  vigour  in  the  Pyrenees  over  the  old  and  the  new 
plantations,  they  were  a  little  reckless  about  some  of 
their  experiments.  Remember,  we've  got  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  in  that  business,  possibly  more.  .  .  . 
Go  over  there  as  soon  as  it  gets  a  little  less  hot,  quietly 
inspect  everything.  Don't  make  up  your  mind  too 
quickly,  or  speak  without  easily  offered  proof  of  your 
remarks.  But  work  with  Gaston.  They  can  easily  put 
you  up.  Work  there  till  the  spring.  Satisfy  yourself 
and  me  that  everything  is  going  on  all  right  in  these 
Pyrenean  gardens.  I  set  enormous  store  by  them.  .  .  . 
I  think  there  are  very  few  drugs  we  cannot  grow  there. 
I  don't  care  if  the  bally  country  is  French,  and  if  we 
work  it  by  an  absolutely  French  company ;  so  long  as  it 
gives  our  British  pharmacopoeia  the  materials  it  wants 


MERVYN  IN  1892  315 

for  us  to  make  up.  .  .  .  Gaston's  wife  is  your  sister, 
and  she  has  seemed  to  me  an  absolutely  sweet  and 
honest  creature  .  .  .  and  I  don't  believe  her  husband 
has  a  grain  of  falseness  in  him.  His  French  di- 
rectors leave  everything  to  him.  Go  and  work  with 
him  for  six  months.  After  all,  your  mother  lives 
at  Pau  now,  and  will  make  a  sort  of  home  for  you 
there " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mervyn,  with  some  bitterness,  "  and 
she's  got  living  with  her,  on  and  off,  that  sweep  of  a 
brother  of  mine,  Lancelot " 

"  Well :  go  and  oust  Lancelot's  influence.  After  all, 
she  is  your  mother — and  Jeanne's — and  if  you  never  go 
near  her — Jeanne,  with  her  babies,  and  you  grizzling 
here — you  can't  wonder  that  she  concentrates  on  the 
priest  brother.  Go  and  see  her.  Stay  with  her.  Work 
with  Gaston.  You  are  in  your  right  as  our  director- 
representative.  Six  months  of  you  there  may  pull 
everything  round  quite  right.  As  to  your  little  Hetty, 
she  can  go  on  staying  with  her  grandmother — dear 
little  soul !  It  has  been  a  renewal  of  our  youth  having 
her.  She  can  go  on  staying  indefinitely  with  us  till 
you  have  made  a  settled  home  once  more.  .  .  .  You'll 
marry  again  some  day." 

"  Not  unless  I  can  marry  Elizabeth." 

"  Well,  don't  worry — perhaps  the  Act  will  pass  this 
session.  It's  one  of  the  few  things  that  keep  me  in 
Parliament  ...  it  is  such  a  rotten  show  otherwise. 
When  it  passes  you  can  come  home  and  marry  her,  if 
she's  agreeable.  I  see  they're  moving  strongly  in  the 
matter  in  South  Africa — going  to  make  it  legal — de- 
ceased wife's  sister.  I  mean — in  the  South  African  col- 
onies. Rhodes  is  strongly  in  favour  of  it,  and  he's 
become  Premier  at  the  Cape." 

"Jove!  is  that  so?  I  am  glad.  Why,  if  the  thing 
breaks  down  in  England  we  might  go  out  to  the  Cape 
and  be  married  there.  I  tell  you,  father,  I  shan't  be 


316  THE  VENEERINGS 

happy  till  Elizabeth  and  I  are  married ;  it  is  the  only 
way  to  provide  a  settled  home  for  Hettykins." 

"  That  may  be.  But,  for  Elizabeth's  sake,  you 
mustn't  be  precipitate.  Go  and  spend  the  winter  with 
Gaston  and  Jeanne,  and  satisfy  yourself  the  Pyrenees 
plantations  are  going  to  play  a  decisive  part  in  our 
business.  .  .  .  Remember,  we  can  do  much  in  the  way 
of  experiments  at  Chacely,  at  Kew ;  but  the  few  extra 
degrees  of  warmth  in  the  Gave  d'Aspe  and  in  the 
Prades  district  are  invaluable.  We  have  far  more 
space,  different  soils,  there.  We  ought  to  be  able,  in 
south-west  France,  to  grow  nearly  all  the  drugs  we 
require  for  our  European  business,  except  a  few  tropi- 
cal, equatorial  things  which  we  must  try  to  cultivate  in 
India,  or  in  Central  America " 

So  Mervyn  departed  for  the  Pyrenees  at  the  end  of 
September,  1891.  He  first  of  all  visited  his  mother  in 
the  Rue  Henri  Quatre,  at  Pau.  It  was  a  house  he  dis- 
liked, probably  built  in  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  unmodern  in  all  that  concerned  sanitation, 
smelly — richly  so  in  certain  rooms,  with  a  not  alto- 
gether disagreeably  blended  odour  of  scented  woods 
and  cooking — too  heavily  furnished  with  the  large  fur- 
niture of  the  Calais  house,  dark,  and  not  entirely  dis- 
sociated from  the  idea  of  fleas  in  certain  rooms. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  our  home,"  said  his 
mother,  a  little  peevishly.  "  The  situation  seemed  to 
suit  Lance,  for  various  reasons;  and  Sophie  gave  us 
very  little  encouragement — I  thought — to  obtain  a 
house  near  her,  outside  Pau;  and  although  I  should 
have  liked  to  get  a  dwelling  close  to  Jeanne,  either  at 
the  Gave  d'Aspe  or  even  six  or  seven  miles  away,  at 
Oloron,  we  could  find  nothing.  Of  course,  Jeanne 
could  have  put  me  up  at  the  Pepiniere,  at  any  rate  for  a 
time,  while  Gaston  is  so  much  away;  but  she  was  quite 
opposed — not  very  kindly  opposed,  I  might  say — to 
finding  room  for  poor  Lance.  Besides,  Lance  has  some 


MERVYN  IN  1892  317 

very  important  work  on  hand — clerical  journalism. 
He  has  put  money  into  a  Pau  newspaper,  a  clerical 
organ,  and  is  really  a  sort  of  sub-editor.  Later  on  he 
will,  no  doubt,  get  some  Church  appointment  in  his 
sacred  calling.  But  just  now  he  is  acting  as  sub-editor 
and  is  publishing  anonymously  some  very  important 
articles." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mervyn,  "  it  is  his  own  money  he 
has  put  into  the  newspaper?  " 

"  Well — er — yes — and  a — little  I  lent  him.  He 
seems  so  eager  about  the  work  and  so  confident  it  is 
going  to  get  him  on." 

"  Well,  now,  mother,  a  stop  must  be  put  to  this,  it 
really  must.  I  don't  mind  how  much  you  leave  to 
Lance  when  you  die :  /  don't  ask  for  anything,  but  I 
think  you  ought  to  leave  something  to  Jeanne — that 
she  and  Lance  should  share  what  you  have,  though  I'm 
sure  I  hope  they  may  have  long  to  wait  for  it.  But  I 
happen,  in  spite  of  going  and  being  away  so  much,  to 
know  a  good  deal  about  what  Lance  and  other  French 
'  clericals  '  are  up  to.  It  isn't  religion,  real,  simple- 
minded  Christian  religion,  they  care  two  straws  about. 
Look  at  this  paper  here  " — and  he  took  up  a  copy  of 
Les  Poumons — "who  could  call  this  really  religious? 
Filthy  jokes,  nasty  innuendoes,  furious  attacks  on 
Protestantism,  and  frantic  appeals  to  the  people  to 
upset  the  present  Government." 

"  Yes,  but  Lance  says " 

"  I  dare  say  he  does — says  all  sorts  of  misleading 
things,  or  he  wouldn't  leave  this  paper  about  in  your 
sitting-room.  But  this  I  am  determined  on,  by  any 
means  in  my  power,  your  money  that  you  have  worked 
so  hard  to  earn,  is  not  going  to  be  wasted  on  religious 
plots  and  Catholic  crusades  in  France.  You  have  got 
about  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year.  Lance,  I  suppose, 
has  got  nothing,  as  he  is  doing  no  regular  clergy 
work?" 


3i8  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  He  gets  a  salary — about  three  thousand  francs  a 
year,  I  think  it  is  —  from  his  paper,  L'Avenvr  des 
Pyrenees." 

"  I  expect  he  made  you  invest  some  of  your  money  in 
the  wretched  concern  before  they  agreed  to  give  him 
that?" 

(Silence.) 

"  I  see  I'm  right,"  continued  Mervyn,  as  he  saw  his 
mother  look  away  towards  the  much-shrouded  window 
and  avoid  answering.  .  .  .  She  suddenly  appeared  to 
him  old  and  a  little  feeble,  though  her  age  was  not  yet 
sixty.  She  was  crying — the  slow  tears  of  old  age. 
Mervyn  felt  an  immense  compunction.  In  the  few 
seconds  of  silence  that  followed  he  rapidly  passed  in 
review  his  life  since  he  was  eighteen,  and  the  very 
small  proportion  of  his  time  and  interest  given  up  to 
his  mother.  She  had  long  seemed  silly  in  his  eyes — 
very  Early  Victorian — the  phrase  which  was  coming 
into  vogue.  Jeanne  and  he,  since  they  were  children, 
had  had  their  little  jokes  about  her.  While  their 
father  had  gradually  become  a  dark  horse,  whose  diva- 
gations they  had  not  even  wished  to  investigate,  lest 
they  led  to  scandals,  their  mother  had  been  thoroughly 
respected  for  keeping  the  home  together,  for  her  finan- 
cial probity  and  eminent  respectability;  but  they  had 
seldom  consulted  her  much  about  their  own  aspirations 
and  ambitions.  So  she  had  been  thrown,  more  and 
more,  into  the  society  of  her  youngest  child,  this  Lance- 
lot, whom  they  both  disliked. 

He  entered  the  room  at  this  very  moment,  while  the 
silence  lasted,  and  Mervyn  reviewed  in  thought  his 
relations  with  his  mother.  Lancelot  was  a  well-grown 
young  man  of  about  five  feet  ten,  so  that  he  looked  tall 
for  a  French  priest.  He  had  a  shaven  face,  already 
seeming  a  little  blue  on  the  cheeks  and  chin,  eyes  that 
were  brown-grey  in  the  pupil,  like  Mervyn's,  but  with 
an  indefinable  furtiveness,  well-grown  eyebrows,  a 


MERVYN  IN  1892  319 

straight  nose,  rather  full  lips,  and  a  rounded,  in-curved 
chin.  You  would  have  felt  that  his  face  had  all  the 
materials  in  it  for  good  looks,  yet  that  he  was  not 
"  nice-looking  "  owing  to  something  in  his  expression 
— an  angry  look  about  the  eyebrows  which  jarred  with 
the  slightly  sensual  lips  and  jaw  well-modelled  for 
mastication.  His  black  clothes  indicated  the  priest, 
yet  were  cut  with  a  care  which  bordered  on  foppish- 
ness, and  his  large  handkerchief  was  obviously  scented. 
Mervyn's  instinctive  thought — he  had  not  seen  his 
brother  for  five  or  six  years — was  "  He  does  not  look 
a  gentleman." 

Lancelot  glanced  first  at  his  mother:  she  had 
obviously  been  crying.  Then  he  faced  his  brother. 

"  Te  voila,  enfin !  Si  ma  mere  ne  m'avait  pas  averti, 
je  ne  t'aurais  guere  reconnu " 

"  Oh,  don't  be  ridiculous,  my  dear  boy,  and  stagey. 
We  are  English,  after  all,  in  origin,  and  when  we  are 
alone  mig'  ,  peak  our  own  language." 

"  You  may  have  remained  or  become  English,"  said 
Lancelot,  speaking  pedantically,  "  but  mother  and  I  are 
French  subjects.  I  was  born  in  France  and  have  never 
been  in  England,  probably  shall  never  go  there.  Our 
family  is  Flemish — Van  Eering — which  is  how  I  have 
spelt  my  name  since  I  became  a  student,  and  how 
mother  spells  her  name  since  my  father  died.  We 
descend,  I  have  found  out,  from  the  Van  Eerings  of 
Ypres — almost  French " 

"Very  possibly,"  replied  Mervyn;  "all  the  British 
population  descends  from  some  Continental  stock  or 
other.  I  have  not  the  slightest  objection  to  you  and 
mother  calling  yourselves  French  subjects,  or  Jeanne 
having  become  one  since  she  married;  but  English 
was  mother's  and  father's  language,  and  mother  still 
speaks  French  like  a  foreigner."  (Mrs.  Veneering,  or, 
as  she  was  now  styled,  Mme.  Van  Eering,  had  already 
glided  out  of  the  room  to  see  that  the  dejeuner-lunch 


320  THE  VENEERINGS 

was  worthy  of  her  household  and  her  new  nationality.) 
"  We  might  at  any  rate  speak  English  when  we  are  by 
ourselves,  if  only  for  her  sake;  for  her  French  accent 
is  rather  ridiculous — makes  me  laugh,  to  be  frank ;  and 
I  don't  want  to  have  any  occasion  or  excuse  for  laugh- 
ing at  any  one  I  respect  so  much." 

Lance  returned  no  definite  reply,  but  answered  to 
his  brother's  English  interrogations  in  that  language, 
though  lavishing  French  on  his  mother  in  their  side 
talks.  Mme.  Van  Bering's  side  replies  to  her  French 
son  seemed  to  Mervyn,  though  her  French  was  fluent, 
so  bordering  on  the  funny,  so  stagey,  that  he  had  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  a  grave  countenance,  but  he  thought  it 
better  to  bide  his  time  and  opportunity  for  pressing  this 
point.  .  .  .  And  did  it  matter?  He  himself,  despite 
his  departure  from  France,  in  1880,  to  work  elsewhere, 
still  spoke  French  like  a  Frenchman.  Sixteen  years  of 
youth  in  France  had  confirmed  that  gift. 

Mme.  Van  Eering  recovered  her  spirits  'during  the 
eating  of  the  dejeuner.  She  had  become  a  good  house- 
wife in  the  course  of  twenty-eight  years  of  French  life, 
and  it  gratified  her  to  see  how  the  menu  was  appreci- 
ated by  her  two  sons.  The  good  meal,  moreover,  had 
made  Mervyn  more  amiable,  more  disposed  to  deal  con- 
siderately with  his  brother,  as  well  as  determined  to 
get  his  mother  safely  placed,  her  rest  and  peace  of 
mind  secured,  her  hardly-earned  and  saved  money 
secured  to  her. 

After  the  dejeuner  had  been  cleared  away,  it  was  now 
past  one,  on  a  very  sultry  day — the  end  of  September. 
They  took  coffee  in  a  rather  measly,  vermoulu  little 
garden,  not  much  larger  than  a  court,  though  not  with- 
out elements  of  the  picturesque.  Behind  the  roofs  of 
houses,  ancient  rather  than  modern,  and  hints  of  an 
unseen  railway  and  passing  trains  below  a  precipitous 
cliff,  there  was  the  glint  of  a  river  and  the  panorama  of 


MERVYN  IN  1892  321 

the  Pyrenees,  a  faintly  blue  sierra  against  the  western 
sky. 

Coffee  and  cigarettes,  and  a  little  contemplative 
silence  increased  the  pacification  commenced  by  a  per- 
fectly cooked  vol-au-vent  and  some  morsels  of  beef- 
steak done  with  mushrooms.  From  the  too  creeper-clad 
garden  there  was  an  adjournment  to  the  salon,  with  its 
sun-blinds  down  and  out,  its  windows  open,  and  the 
slight,  cheery  noises  of  the  ancient  street  passing 
across  the  room  to  its  blind-shielded  windows  on  the 
garden  side. 

Mervyn,  only  three  days  out  from  England,  felt  the 
charm  of  France — the  most  seductive  of  all  countries 
— stealing  over  him.  The  chair  in  which  he  was 
seated  was  monstrously  ugly  and  very  uncomfortable, 
the  cooking  smell  still  permeating  the  house  was  too 
rich  and  strong  for  a  satisfied  appetite:  but  he  said, 
chiefly  to  his  frowning  priest-brother : 

"  Now,  look  here !  I'm  not  going  to  rest  or  to  leave 
Pau — at  any  rate  for  long — till  I've  settled  mother's 
affairs — settled  'em — so  that  her  capital  is  placed  in  the 
fullest  security  and  her  annual  income  is  sufficient  for 
her  needs  as  an  elderly  lady  living  in  comfort.  Her 
minimum  income — which  I  am  afraid  is  only  eight 
hundred  a  year — don't  interrupt,  or  I  shall  put  you  out 
of  the  room  and  go  on  talking  with  mother!  "  he  ex- 
claimed, impatient  at  any  chance  of  a  protest  or  inter- 
ruption from  Lancelot.  "  Mother !  Listen !  We  must 
call  your  notaire,  your  homme  d'affaires  into  this  dis- 
cussion. If  you  haven't  got  one  here,  we'll  ask  Sophie 
de  Lamelle's  advice.  She's  such  a  good  woman  of 
business,  she's  sure  long  ago  to  have  found  a  compe- 
tent and  trustworthy  equivalent  of  an  English  solicitor. 
.  .  .  Well,  then,  your  funds,  your  capital,  your  securi- 
ties, every  mortal  bit  of  property  you've  got,  must  be 
vested  in — what  shall  we  say  ? — three  trustees — Gaston, 
your  homme  d'affaires,  and  me,  or  some  one  like  me, 


322  THE  VENEERINGS 

who  isn't  going  to  profit  by  your  will.  You  must 
make  a  new  will,  if  your  old  one  does  not  play  fair,  and 
leave  the  bulk  of  your  property  equally  divided  be- 
tween Jeanne — or  Jeanne's  children — and  Lancelot; 
and  the  whole  of  your  securities  must  be  transferred  to, 
handed  over  to  your  trustees,  so  that  you  can't  dispose 
of  the  least  of  them.  The  annual  interest  on  these 
securities — say  eight  hundred  a  year — shall  be  yours 
to  spend,  and  of  this  you  may,  as  long  as  you  like,  give 
a  hundred  a  year,  to  Lance.  Not  a  penny  more.  So 
long  as  you  live  and  this  arrangement  lasts,  /  will  make 
Lance  an  allowance  of  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  until 
and  unless  he  should  receive  from  anywhere  a  salary  of 
five  hundred  pounds  or  over.  Thus,  during  your  life- 
time and  so  long  as  he  plays  fair  he  will  be  receiving 
two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  unless  in  addition  to  that 
he  makes  more  than  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  annu- 
ally, when  he  will  only  receive  your  half  of  the  allow- 
ance. At  your  death  he  will  have  half  your  property 
and  Jeanne  the  other  half. 

"  In  addition  to  that,  if  you  like  his  company  and  he 
doesn't  get  into  Press  trouble  with  the  authorities,  he 
can  go  on  living  with  you  and  saving  his  board-and- 
lodging  expenses.  I  don't  mind  his  sub-editing  or 
editing  a  newspaper  or  anything  else,  provided  it  isn't 
that  beastly  rag  of  the  Abbe  Loriot's — La  Demangeai- 
son — or  whatever  it's  called — Oh,  yes !  I  remember — 
Les  Poumons  de  la  Loire — It  really  ought  to  be  Les 
Poux-menteurs  du  Loriot." 

"  My  dear  Mervyn !  "  exclaimed  his  mother,  rather 
languidly — she  was  really  at  the  moment  wondering 
what  the  butcher  had  been  charging  for  the  kilogramme 
of  beefsteak — it  had  been  admirably  cooked,  certainly. 
Still,  Julie  must  not  be  extravagant. 

Lancelot  thought  it  more  dignified  to  look  away 
from  his  brother,  contemptuously,  into  the  narrow 


MERVYN  IN  1892  323 

glimpses  of  the  shaded  street.  Mervyn  dabbed  his 
forehead  a  little  with  his  handkerchief  and  continued : 

"  From  what  I  remember  of  your  affairs  after 
father's  death,  you  should  have  been  in  possession  now 
of  quite  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year — twenty  thou- 
sand francs.  Yet  you  only  seem  to  have  something 
under  eighteen  thousand  francs  as  an  income.  You 
must  have  already  messed  away  two  or  three  thousand 
pounds  over  Lance's  crusades  and  political  plotting — 
buying  him  a  share  in  this  Catholic  paper,  L'Avenir  des 
Pyrenees,  I  suspect " 

"  Well,  and  what  if  she  did  ?  "  said  Lance,  turning 
on  him  angrily :  "  since  I  am  sub-editor  of  the  paper 
and  get  a  salary  from  it?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  get  a  salary,  why  do  you  want  her  to 
make  you  an  allowance,  as  I  know  you  do?  In  any 
case,  there  is  no  guarantee  that  when  this  rotten  re- 
ligious excitement  dies  down  your  paper  won't  die 
with  it.  With  the  terms  I  am  offering  you  so  long  as 
your  paper  lasts  you  can  go  on  drawing  the  salary  it 
gives  you,  in  addition  to  mother's  allowance  and  hospi- 
tality and  to  my  hundred  a  year." 

Lance  turned  his  head  away  to  the  window;  sulky, 
but  calculating.  An  assured  two  hundred  pounds — five 
thousand  francs — a  year,  plus  a  comfortable  home 
with  a  good  cwsine,  and  brothership  with  a  rich  Eng- 
lishman, as  the  French  would  repute  Mervyn  to  be. 
In  any  case,  if  he  objected,  Mervyn  would  be  too  strong 
for  him :  for  Jeanne  and  Gaston,  the  Lamelle  woman, 
too,  would  side  against  him  and  would  influence  the 
local  authorities.  .  .  .  Pere  Duparquet  was  dead.  .  .  . 
He  had  no  friends  in  the  serving  church,  the  church  of 
the  people ;  only  among  the  Jesuits,  the  Congregations. 
His  clerical  associates  of  the  Press  were  at  present 
"  chiches  aux  paiements,"  meagre  in  their  monetary 
rewards  for  services;  and  not  to  have  quarrelled  with 


324  THE  VENEERINGS 

Mervyn,  with  a  supposedly-rich  English  brother,  would 
of  itself  be  a  strengthener  of  his  position.  ...  So  he 
said,  after  a  few  seconds'  silence : 

"  Oh,  have  it  your  own  way !  You  seem  to  have 
silenced  mother.  As  long  as  she  is  safe  and  comfort- 
able I  am  prepared  to  rough  it.  I  don't  care  how  little 
/  get !  Fortunately  my  tastes  are  economical  .  .  .  and 
I  want  to  be  going  back  now  to  my  office." 

He  whisked  out  of  the  salon,  and  presently  they 
heard  the  front  door  close  behind  him  and  his  steps  on 
the  pavement. 

Mervyn's  mother  tacitly  agreed  to  this  arrangement 
of  her  affairs.  She  soon  became,  as  the  autumn  days 
succeeded,  placid,  even  happy,  with  her  two  sons; 
Lancelot  immersed  in  his  mysterious  affairs  and  ap- 
pearing only  at  the  two  principal  meals,  and  Mervyn 
eager  to  make  a  better  home  of  this  over-furnished, 
stuffily  accoutred,  not  too  cleanly  house.  .  .  .  Mervyn, 
of  necessity,  must  know  far  more  about  finance  than 
his  younger  brother.  ...  It  would  be  not  merely 
comfortable,  but — now  she  thought  of  it — positively 
blissful  in  her  old  age  to  have  no  terror  about  becom- 
ing poor.  The  three  trustees  would  make  things  safe 
for  her  and  her  children.  "  Dear  Mervyn !  "  she  ex- 
claimed to  herself,  as  she  went  up  to  see  that  his  bed- 
room was  tidy  and  well  aired  and  that  the  stain  on  the 
wall  was  quite  covered  by  the  wardrobe.  "  What  a 
fine  figure  of  a  man  he  had  grown!  So  like  dear 
Papa,  probably,  when  he  first  came  to  live  at  Black- 
heath."  Perhaps  now  he  was  a  widower  he  would 
reside  near  her  in  the  Pyrenees  and  bring  his  little 
child  there,  whom  she  could  take  care  of.  At  any 
rate 

In  the  course  of  a  fortnight  Mervyn  had  negotiated 
an  arrangement  by  which  the  house  in  Rue  Henri 
Quatre  was  leased  to  his  mother  at  a  rent  equivalent  to 


MERVYN  IN  1892  325 

eighty  pounds  a  year,  on  the  understanding  that  the 
sanitation  and  redecoration  were  attended  to  at  her 
(his)  expense.  In  the  course  of  a  month  he  had  had 
w.c.'s  of  the  most  modern  order  installed  outside  each 
of  the  four  floors,  all  the  drainage  properly  attended 
to,  different  and  more  cleanly  kitchen  and  scullery  ar- 
rangements introduced.  By  Christmas  time  two  new 
windows  had  been  made,  the  garden  had  been  revised, 
planted,  and  tidied,  the  excess  of  creeper  subdued,  but 
the  beautiful  high  walls  left,  unspoilt  in  tone  and  their 
fruit  trees  pruned  and  honoured.  Each  room  was 
drastically  cleaned  out  and  then  its  walls  were  redis- 
tempered  and  its  woodwork  restained  and  varnished. 
Some  of  the  furniture  was  rearranged  or  remodelled, 
and  the  whole  made  less  oppressive;  some  bits  were 
sold,  some  new  pieces  were  bought.  Light  was  let  in, 
ventilation  improved,  heavy  hangings  abolished,  smells 
ruthlessly  hunted  down  and  despatched.  Lancelot  was 
allotted  a  bedroom  and  a  sitting-room ;  his  mother  had 
her  own  bath-room,  and  a  second  one  was  constructed 
for  the  brothers  and  guests. 

All  these  reforms  were  not  properly  finished  till 
March,  1892.  "  I  consider  you  have  assured  your 
mother  at  least  ten  years  more  of  life — perhaps 
twenty,"  said  Sophie  de  Lamelle,  when  all  was  done 
and  she  had  come  in  one  afternoon  to  take  tea  and 
inspect  the  repainted,  repapered,  almost  reconstructed 
eighteenth-century  house ;  its  quaintness  heightened,  its 
atmosphere  sweetened,  its  comfort  doubled,  and  all  its 
phantoms,  odours,  rats,  mice,  cockroaches,  fleas,  and 
earwigs  dispelled. 

Mervyn  made  No.  24,  Rue  Henri  Quatre  his  head- 
quarters from  the  autumn  of  1891  to  the  autumn  of 
1892.  But  he  left  Pau  in  April,  '92,  on  a  fortnight's 
visit  to  England  to  see  his  child,  to  see  Elizabeth,  whom 
he  had  determined  to  marry,  to  see  the  Harmons  and 
the  Cornesses. 


326  THE  VENEERINGS 

John  Harmon's  attempt,  in  1891,  to  push  through 
the  House  of  Commons  the  amendment  of  the  Mar- 
riage Laws  sanctioning  the  marriage  of  a  man  with  his 
deceased  wife's  sister,  had  failed.  There  seemed — 
owing  to  the  upset  of  the  General  Election  in  1892 — 
no  prospect  of  bringing  the  measure  forward  again  in 
that  year  or  for  several  years;  on  the  other  hand, 
Rhodes,  now  Premier  of  Cape  Colony,  was  going  to 
legalise  this  marriage  in  South  Africa.  Then — a  little 
patience — and  they  could  go  out  to  the  Cape  and  be 
married  there;  and  Mervyn  could,  at  the  same  time, 
study  for  his  firm  the  extraordinary  Cape  flora,  which 
now,  and  owing  to  Rhodes's  influence,  was  being  effec- 
tively protected  and  studied. 

But  before  he  could  feel  free  for  such  a  protracted 
absence,  not  only  should  his  mother's  affairs  be  happily 
settled  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  Lancelot  simul- 
taneously kept  within  bounds,  but,  most  important  of 
all,  from  the  firm's  point  of  view,  Gaston's  work  in  the 
Pyrenees  must  be  conducted  on  assured  lines.  So,  at 
different  times  between  the  autumn  of  1891  and  that 
of  the  following  year,  he  visited  the  company's  plan- 
tations between  Prades  on  the  south  and  the  Gave 
d'Aspe  on  the  north,  conferring  with  Gaston  and  the 
six  or  seven  French  botanists  and  analytical  chemists; 
with  his  sister;  and  with  their  ever  faithful  friend, 
Sophie  de  Lamelle ;  till  it  really  seemed  at  last  that  the 
Societe  Droguiste  des  Pyrenees — whether  "  anony- 
mous "  or  not — was  in  a  healthy  condition,  and  able  to 
keep  the  parent  firm  in  Mincing  Lane  well  supplied 
with  material. 

Then  there  remained  the  clearing  up  of  Lance's 
affairs. 

For  this  purpose  he  obtained,  through  Gaston,  an 
introduction  to  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  which  in- 
cluded Pau.  Then — in  the  late  autumn  of  1892 — a 
journey  to  the  old,  old  town  where  lay  the  bishop's 


MERVYN  IN  1892  327 

palace — near  the  sea — the  town  that  was  Christian  by 
the  fourth  century,  the  Lapurdum  of  the  Romans, 
scarred  with  the  history  of  nineteen  hundred  years, 
threatened,  insulted  once  or  twice  by  the  Saracens, 
occupied  by  the  English  seven  hundred  and  one  hun- 
dred years  ago. 

He  had  made  certain  of  an  appointment  by  writing 
beforehand;  for  in  his  present  phase  of  thought  he 
was  unhappy  and  restless  if  he  had  to  wait  or  was 
baulked  of  action.  The  Episcopal  palace  was  of  great 
ancientry,  almost  suggesting  a  continued  use  from 
Roman  times;  it  was  also  very  dusty.  The  reception 
rooms  were  very  lofty,  the  drapery,  the  dull-coloured 
furniture  might  stretch  back  to  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  bishop,  as  Mervyn  entered,  put  down  a  letter  he 
was  reading — Gaston's,  he  could  see  from  the  hand- 
writing— rose  and  extended  a  hand.  Mervyn  did  not 
drop  lightly  on  one  knee  and  kiss  the  episcopal  ring ;  he 
respectfully  pressed  the  hand  and  then  sat  down  on  the 
chair  indicated,  murmuring  a  conversational  prelude. 

"  Tres  content  de  vous  voir,  Monsieur !  Vous  n'etes 
pas  Frangais,  a  ce  qu'il  me  semble,  mais  vous  me  venez 
bien  recommande — par — par — Monsieur  Dudeffrand — 
oui,  Monsieur  Dudeffrand  .  .  .  the  husband  of  a 
charming  woman " 

"  My  sister " 

"  Of  course;  your  sister — one  needs  only  to  look  at 
you  to  see  that.  A  striking  resemblance.  .  .  .  Well : 
Monsieur  is  an  anomaly — an  Englishman  ...  it  ap- 
pears .  .  .  and  yet  speaking  French  like  a  Frenchman 
born.  But  your  sister  is  a  Frenchwoman  from  the 
north?" 

"  No,  Monseigneur  .  .  .  and  yes!  English  in  origin 
as  I  am — or  farther  back  still,  perhaps  Flemish.  But 
French  by  residence  and  marriage." 

"  Well !  That  is  sufficient.  Would  that  France,  our 
dear  country,  had  more  citizenesses  like  Madame 


328  THE  VENEERINGS 

Dudeffrand — genereuse  de  ses  bebes !  .  .  .  But  we  are 
both  busy  men.  I  do  not  speak  empty  compliments, 
but  because  your  family  inspires  me  with  a  sentiment 
of  interest.  Now  what  can  I  do  for  you?  Qui  n'etes 
pas,  apres  tout,  des  notres.  You  are  not  Catholic? 
You  are  Protestant?  " 

Mervyn:  "  Not  precisely  anything,  since  I  must 
reply  truthfully,  Monseigneur.  ...  A  puzzled  man, 
who  is  trying  humbly  to  prosecute  botanical  studies  in 
the  hope  of  discovering  drugs  to  heal  all  our  physical 
maladies,  if  not  our  mental  ones.  But  I  am  not  here  to 
talk  about  myself,  or  to  waste  your  time  over  my 
affairs.  ...  It  is  about  my  younger  brother  I  have 
come  to  see  Your  Greatness.  This  brother  Lancelot 
was  born  in  France,  and  since  adolescence  has  become 
a  French  citizen,  and  is  now  a  young  priest.  He  was 
educated  at  Calais  and  Autun,  and  spells  his  name  in 
the  Flemish  fashion — Van  Eering.  Here — and — here 
are  particulars  about  him  for  reference.  He  is  a  priest 
without  a  cure  .  .  .  drifting — bien  a  mon  regret — into 
politics — and  .  .  .  newspaper  strife,  and  plottings 
against  the  powers  that  be." 

The  ecclesiastic  looked  a  little  disconcerted. 

"  Of  course,"  continued  Mervyn,  "  if  he  were  not 
my  younger  brother  and  if  my  mother,  who  is  likewise 
a  Catholic,  had  more  authority  over  him,  it  would  be 
out  of  my  place  to  interfere.  II  tracerait  son  propre 
chemin.  But — but — as  I  am  leaving  France  for  a 
while  to  return  to  England  and  perhaps  to  go  elsewhere 
— and  may  be  long  away  from  the  Pyrenees — bien  que 
j'y  aie  des  interets  serieux — it  seemed  to  me  that  an 
appeal  to  your  goodness  of  heart  might  secure  Your 
Greatness's  intervention  and " 

"  Give  me  the  name  and  address  of  your  brother, 
Monsieur,  at  Pau.  C'est  la  que  demeure  Madame 
votre  mere?  Good.  Leave  these  particulars  with  me. 
I  will  inquire  into  the  case  and  see  if  we  cannot  find 


MERVYN  IN  1892  329 

some  way  of  utilising  your  brother's  services.    I  will  at 
any  rate  see  him." 

And  from  that  the  conversation  turned  to  other  top- 
ics ...  the  antiquities  of  the  western  Pyrenees,  the 
Roman  remains,  the  ancientry  of  the  bishopric,  the 
Moorish  invasions,  Monseigneur's  own  remembrances 
of  Algeria,  his  interest  in  African  botany,  the  scope  of 
medicinal  botany.  Ah,  how  deeply  interesting  that 
was !  What  a  work  for  France !  Would  not  Monsieur 
Veneering  do  him  the  pleasure  of  breakfasting? 
"  Alors,  a  tantot!  Des  affaires  d'figlise,  du  diocese  a 
ranger.  ...  A  tantot !  Midi  ?  Cest  Qa." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH 

CANON  MILVEY,  it  has  been  related  in  an 
earlier  chapter  (when  he  was  about  to  perform 
the  marriage  ceremony  over  Mervyn  and  Hetty),  was 
not  only  a  kindly  man,  but  had  had  a  gradually 
broadened  outlook  on  the  world  and  its  marvels  and 
mysteries  since  he  had  been  given,  by  John  Harmon, 
the  living  of  Chacely.  He  rode  a  tricycle,  photo- 
graphed, and  wrote  upon  the  pre-Norman  features  of 
Chacely  Church,  and  was  fast  becoming  an  authority 
on  the  fungi — edible  and  non-edible — of  Gloucester- 
shire. But  his  broad-mindedness  had  its  limits.  Like 
nearly  all  the  clergy  of  the  Church  of  England  in  Eng- 
land at  that  period  (though  not  in  the  "Colonies"), 
he  was  strongly  opposed  to  the  marriage  by  a  widower 
of  his  deceased  wife's  sister. 

Why  this  almost  passionate  feeling  arose  among  the 
clergy  of  this  Church  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  we  may  never  know.  And  when  its  physical 
or  psychological  cause  is  laid  bare  to  the  next  genera- 
tion, our  successors  in  thinking  may  be  too  uninterested 
in  the  dead  controversy  to  listen  to  the  explanation. 
But  in  the  story  here  told  it  must  be  related  that, 
although  Canon  Milvey  should  have  been  aware  that 
his  friend  of  thirty  years'  standing — John  Harmon — 
was  what  was  then  opprobriously  termed  a  Free 
Thinker,  almost  without  a  religious  conviction  of  any 
kind,  and  only  a  Christian  by  his  conduct  and  inherent 
kindliness — he  preferred  to  ignore  this  liberty  of 

330 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  331 

thought,  provided  he  did  not  come  into  open  conflict 
with  the  Church.  There  were  in  those  days  very  few 
points  on  which  you  could  stand  out  in  such  an  in- 
vidious position,  but  this  was  one ;  and  Milvey  having, 
since  Mervyn's  return  from  France,  suddenly  become 
aware  of  his  intense  desire  to  wed  Elizabeth,  his 
deceased  wife's  sister,  felt  that  at  this  point  he  must 
intervene  earnestly  with  the  patron  of  his  living. 

So  on  John  Harmon's  return  from  London  to  spend 
the  Christmas  holidays  at  Chacely,  Milvey  sought  a 
morning  interview,  hoping  to  get  the  unpleasant  duty 
over  and  done  with  and  the  nightmare  dispelled  before 
Chacely  Priory  filled  up  with  its  Christmas  party  and 
they  proceeded  to  a  wholesome  jollity  which  had  been 
absent  from  their  meetings  since  Hetty's  death. 

Harmon  had  evidently  guessed  at  the  meaning  of 
this  request  for  a  private  talk,  for  he  received  the 
Canon  in  his  private  sitting-room,  off  the  library,  where 
all  subjects  might  be  discussed  with  any  degree  of 
emotion  without  the  sounds  penetrating  indiscreetly  to 
ears  outside. 

"  Well,  Milvey !  What  is  the  serious  subject  you 
want  to  see  me  about?  It  can't  be  mushrooms,  after 
the  recent  frosts.  I  hope  it's  nothing  wrong  with  the 
new  church  stove  ?  " 

"  It's  much  worse — in  a  way,  my  dear  friend.  It's 
the  most  .  .  .  the  only  painful  thing  that  could  come 
between  us.  ...  I  won't  expatiate.  .  .  .  Your  time  is 
always  valuable.  ...  I  will  come  to  the  point,  to  the 
question  which  really  agitates  me.  Is  Mervyn  intend- 
ing to.  ...  Well !  he  can't  marry  her — legally.  But 
I  mean,  is  he  really.  .  .  .  Oh!  hang  it  all — I  mean — 
what  does  he  intend  doing  about  that  dear  girl  Eliza- 
beth? I  hate  having  to  speak  on  such  a  subject.  I 
am  much  indebted  to  you,  I  love  all  your  children  so 

much — I — I "  (His  emotion  got  the  better  of 

him.) 


332  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  are  intending  to  get 
married,"  replied  Harmon,  putting  himself  into  the 
revolving  chair  at  the  writing-table.  "  To  get  married 
as  soon  as  may  be.  ...  But  do  sit  down.  That  chair, 
if  you  like  it.  ...  And  let  us  talk  over  this  thing 
quietly  and  considerately.  .  .  .  Mervyn  and  Elizabeth 
are  intending  to  marry,  but  as  we  failed  last  year  to  do 
away,  in  Parliament,  with  this  monstrous  prohibition 
of  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister.  .  .  .  No, 
don't  interrupt  me.  You  shall  have  your  own  say 
when  I  have  finished.  .  .  .  This  monstrous  prohibi- 
tion, which  really  only  affects  a  few  countries  of 
Protestant  Christianity,  they — Mervyn  and  Lizzie — 
are  going  out  with  me  to  South  Africa.  In  Cape 
Colony  this  marriage  was  legalised  on  December  6— 
three  weeks  ago.  Cecil  Rhodes  was  determined  to  get 
that  done.  He  hasn't  been  over  well,  I  hear — fall 
from  his  horse.  Well,  we're  going  out  to  the  Cape 
in  January  or  February,  and  after  the  necessary  period 
of  residence  my  daughter  will  marry  my  son-in-law. 
Now !  Say  your  say  and  I  won't  interrupt !  " 

Canon  Milvey:  "  Well,  Harmon.  We  look  at  this 
question  from  different  standpoints.  I  dare  say  scien- 
tific men  may  see  no  reason  why  a  man  should  not 
marry  his  deceased  wife's  sister.  They  may  argue  that 
there  is  no  blood  relationship;  consequently — I  need 
not  waste  your  time  by  going  into  that — it  is  the  dis- 
tinct prohibition  against  it  in  our  Scriptures  which  has 
made  our  Church  so  determined  to  forbid  such  a 
union " 

Harmon:  "Have  you  finished?  I  mean,  I  don't 
want  to  hurry  you  or  flurry  you.  I've  lots  of  time  this 
morning — a  preliminary  rest  before  our  Christmas 
visitors  come.  .  .  .  Have  a  cigar?  Or  a  pipe?" 

Milvey:  "  No,  thank  you  very  much.  I  never  smoke 
nowadays  before  lunch.  .  .  .  This  has  dreadfully 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  333 

upset  me.  ...  I  set  such  store  by  you  and  your 
friendship " 

Harmon:  "  I  know  you  do,  old  chap.  And  I  will 
do  as  little  as  I  can  to  disturb  that  friendship.  I'm 
not  asking  you  to  marry  them,  am  I  ?  But  as  I  see  no 
chance  of  our  Bill  passing  for  years,  and  feel  such  a 
delay  would  be  cruel  to  Mer  and  Lizzie,  I  have  con- 
sented to  go  out  with  them  to  the  Cape  and  stay  with 
them — or  Lizzie  with  me — until  they  can  get  legally 
married  according  to  Cape  laws  " — (smokes).  "  It's 
a  big  sacrifice,  I'm  making — of  time.  Firstly,  I  don't 
like  leaving  Bella  for  long,  and  although  I'm  very 
eager  to  see  Cape  Colony  now,  after — what  is  it? 
Thirty-two  years? — going  away  with  Mervyn  means 
the  departure  for  remote  South  Africa  of  the  two  most 
important  members  of  our  firm.  But  it  is  everything 
to  me  that  my  'daughter  and  my  son-in-law — and 
Hetty's  child — should  be  happy.  Where  could  this 
child  find  a  sweeter  stepmother  than  in  Elizabeth  ?  She 
will  be  able  to  go  and  live  with  them  when  they 
are  back  in  England,  and  will  grow  up  never  realising 
she  has  lost  her  own  mother.  So  far  from  being 
opposed  to  the  deceased  wife's  sister  business,  I  am  so 
much  in  favour  of  it — now  I've  come  to  think  of  it — 
that  I  would  actually  subsidise  it  in  the  case  of  poor 
couples,  give  'em  a  grant  from  the  State  to  start  the 
second  marriage;  especially  if  there  were  children  by 
the  first  wife.  From  the  children's  point  of  view  I 
am  more  in  favour  of  it  than  of  any  other  kind  of 
second  marriage — whether  it  was  or  whether  it  was 
not  quite  to  the  liking  of  the  imaginary  tribal  god  of 
a  semi-savage  desert  tribe  three  thousand  years  ago. 
.  .  .  Your  Church  must  be  advised  by  stark,  staring 
madmen  to  have  worked  up  all  this  agitation  since — 
what  was  it? — 1835?" 

Milvey:  "  They  were  always  opposed  to  it  in  reality, 
from  the  time  they  were  a  separate  Church;  only  they 


334  THE  VENEERINGS 

got  no  opportunity  to  enforce  their — their — views  on 
the  State  till  the  year  you  mention " 

Harmon  (interrupting)  :  "  .  .  .  when  they  struck 
some  sort  of  a  bargain  with  Parliament — *  You  make 
the  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister  illegal 
and  we'll  give  in — on  some  other  point' — I  forget 
what " 

Milvey:  "  It  may  be  as  you  say.  But  the  legislators 
did  agree,  did  so  frame  the  Act,  and  haven't  undone 
their  procedure " 

Harmon:  "  No,  though  they  have  been  asked  to 
undo  it  by  a  very  considerable  body  of  public  opinion — 
how  many  times  is  it,  since  1850?  I've  got  notes  some- 
where in  this  drawer  because  I'm  always  hammering 
at  the  question — almost  the  only  thing  I  speak  about 
in  the  House  now.  Stop  a  bit.  .  .  .  Here  they  are. 
No.  Not  those;  those  are  about  fish  manure.  .  .  . 
Ah!  I've  got  'em."  (Reads  through  a  short  manu- 
script.) "Since  1850.  .  .  .  There!  you  can  see  for 
yourself.  .  .  .  Twenty-seven  times;  and  since  1879, 
the  Princes  all  voting  for  it  in  the  House  of  Lords  and 
the  Queen  known  to  be  in  favour  of  it !  Twenty-seven 
times  have  we  debated  the  matter  in  one  or  other  House 
since  1850.  .  .  .  But,  my  dear  old  chap!  why  should 
we  go  on  discussing  this  and  working  ourselves  up 
into  anger?  Your  Church  doggedly — and,  as  I  think, 
insensately — opposes  this  reform  in  the  United  King- 
dom. You  must  therefore  follow  suit.  I  quite  under- 
stand. I'm  not  asking  you  to  come  out  to  the  Cape — 
though  I  should  be  delighted  if  you  and  Mrs.  Milvey 
did  come — and  marry  this  determined  couple  in  Cape 
Town.  I  am  only  telling  you  as  an  old  friend  that 
they  are  going  out  with  me  to  the  Cape  and  that  there, 
as  soon  as  the  local  law  permits,  they  will  get  married. 
.  .  .  And  afterwards  I  shall  continue  striving  for  all 
I'm  worth  to  push  in  our  home  Parliament  for  making 
these  marriages  of  men  with  their  deceased's  wife's 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  335 

sister  legal — retrospectively  as  well  as  actually.  If 
you  can  even  put  a  finger  on  a  text  in  Exodus  or 
Leviticus  specifically  forbidding  such  a  union  in  plain 
words  and  after  the  death  of  the  first  wife,  I  would 
grant  you  the  prohibition  might  carry  some  weight  with 
a  polygamous  Jew;  but  even  then  I  can't  see  why  it 
need  flutter  monogamous  Christians  who  have  dis- 
carded such  a  mass  of  Jewish  rubbish  in  religion. 
Don't  forget  that!  If  you're  to  revive  these  regu- 
lations for  the  harassing  of  Christians,  revive  at  the 
same  time  the  compensations  the  Jews  enjoyed.  Make 
polygamy  legal.  .  .  .  But  you  can't  even  find  this 
particular  union  definitely  proscribed.  You  can  only 
read  in  a  hushed  voice — forgive  me  for  saying  *  you  ' 
each  time — I  am  thinking  only  of  the  typical  upholder 
of  this  nonsense.  Some  such  person  can  only  quote 
in  lowered  tones — because  of  their  impropriety — 
passages  about  discovering  the  nakedness  of  certain 
degrees  of  affinity.  .  .  .  And  the  same  books  of  Ex- 
odus and  Leviticus  contain  still  more  stringent  pro- 
nouncements as  to  the  colours  the  Deity  desired  for  the 
curtains  of  his  Tabernacle — what  were  they?  Let's 
get  a  Bible  and  see." 

(Takes  down  one  from  a  shelf.  Turns  over  its 
pages.) 

"  Here  we  are !  '  Blue  and  purple  and  scarlet.'  .  .  . 
And  bowls  made  '  like  unto  almonds,  with  a  knop  and 
a  flower  in  one  branch.'  .  .  .  Why  are  all  these  pro- 
visos, these  hundred  ordinances  about  burnt  offerings 
and  bowls  of  blood  set  on  one  side  and  ignored,  while 
a  few  vexatious  passages  regarding  the  polygamous 
marriages  of  the  Israelites  are  treasured,  positively 
treasured,  by  the  Church  of  England  because  they  may 
be  enforced  to  hurt  natural-minded  men  and  women  of 
the  present  day?  There!  I  am  giving  you  a  hash  of 
my  House  of  Commons  speeches!  I  believe  Glad- 
stone wrings  his  hands  when  I'm  up  and  exclaims 


336  THE  VENEERINGS 

'  Blasphemy ! '  I've  promoted  Bills  for  the  reform — 
or  voted  for  'em — nine  times  since  1880."  (Pauses 
for  breath.) 

Milvey:  "  I  know  you  have.  Somehow  it  never 
worried  me — theoretically,  I  mean,  your  doing  so.  I 
always  knew  we  were  not  in  agreement  on  all  matters 
of  religion,  but " 

Harmon  (interrupting,  or  rather  continuing  in 
thought)  :  "  If  Mervyn  and  Hetty  had  not  had  a  child 
— such  a  darling  child,  you  know  her  well! — I  would 
not  be  so  eager  that  he  should  marry  Elizabeth.  But 
there  it  is!  The  child  looks  on  Elizabeth  as  her 
mother " 

Milvey:  "  Is  Hetty  going  out  with  you  to  South 
Africa " 

Harmon:  "  Of  course  not.  She  is  only  three  years 
old.  She  will  remain  here  in  her  grandmother's  care 
till  her  father  comes  back  and  sets  up  house  again  on 
this  side " 

Milvey:  "  Then,  as  they  will  probably  be  away  sev- 
eral years.  .  .  .  However,  argument  and  remonstrance 
on  my  part  are  futile,  I  can  see !  This  thing  grieves  me 
as  much  as  if  it  were  the  affair  of  my  own  children — 
I— I— I " 

Harmon:  "You.  .  .  .  You!  Dear  old  friend!  I 
realise  your  position.  You  have  made  your  protest, 
done  your  duty.  Now  dismiss  it  from  your  thoughts. 
.  .  .  And  let's  have  a  quietly  happy  Christmas.  We 
have  had  such  sad  ones  since  Hetty  died.  .  .  .  Utter 
objurgations  if  you  still  feel  it  part  of  your  Christian 
duty,  but  reserve  them  till  I  come  back,  till  I  inform 
you  that  the  marriage  has  taken  place.  Why,  we  may 
all  be  shipwrecked,  or  stranded  on  a  desert  island,  or 
the  young  people  may  quarrel  on  the  way  out,  or 
Elizabeth  may  show,  when  she  gets  there,  a  preference 

for  Cecil  Rhodes !" 

***** 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  337 

Canon  Milvey  left  the  Priory  feeling  and  looking 
sad ;  the  sadder,  perhaps,  because  he  could  not  precisely 
remember  the  Church's  arguments  or  the  incriminating 
texts  in  the  tiresome  Pentateuch.  In  a  way,  he  scarcely 
liked  to  admit  to  himself,  he  really  disliked  all  the  books 
of  the  Old  Testament,  prior  to  the  Psalms.  The  four 
books  of  the  Pentateuch,  after  the  bold  Arabian  Nights 
stories  of  Genesis,  were  excessively  tedious  and  con- 
tentious, indulged  in  many  repetitions  and  much  ob- 
scure Jacobean  phraseology,  and  exhibited  the  Deity  in 
a  light  that  could  only  be  called  repulsive  to  an  educated 
man  of  modern  times — a  sort  of  dematerialised,  fussy, 
old  sheikh  with  a  barbaric  love  of  jewels  and  gold  and 
scented  woods,  burnt  offerings  and  animal  terror.  .  .  . 
Nothing  whatever  like  the  Creator  of  a  Universe  of 
uncountable  myriads  of  fixed  stars  and  nebulae,  or  even 
of  the  mere  solar  system.  The  disgusting  repetitions 
of  phrases  about  blood  and  fat  and  broiled  meat.  .  .  . 
How  could  the  bishops? 

But  the  bishops,  he  knew,  would  not  budge  an  inch 
or  yield  an  iota  in  the  matter  of  marriage  with  a 
deceased  wife's  sister.  Rome,  it  is  true,  compromised 
by  making  it  merely  the  matter  of  granting  a  dis- 
pensation after  a  reasonable  inquiry.  .  .  .  And  yet 
earlier  than  that,  the  Roman  bishops  had  promulgated 
such  fantastic  marriage  laws  that  you  daren't  look 
in  an  amatory  way  on  a  third  cousin. 

But  what  had  our  English  bishops  done  during  all 
these  years  about  children  working  in  factories — 
working  twelve  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four?  About 
little  boys  sweeping  chimneys?  When  he  had  toiled 
in  a  large,  poor  parish  in  North-west  London,  John 
Harmon  had  helped  him  with  money,  with  advice,  with 
furtherance  of  his  schemes.  What  had  the  bishops 
done  in  the  House  of  Lords  to  make  life  tolerable  and 
reasonably  safe  for  the  very  poor?  Nothing. 

He  confided  all  these  doubts  and  difficulties  to  his 


338  THE  VENEERINGS 

spouse  on  his  return  home.  Mrs.  Milvey  was  very 
much  inclined  to  shrivel  them  up  by  caustic  criticisms 
of  the  Anglican  bishops,  but  did  not.  Her  husband 
was  tired,  and  for  once  looked  his  age.  In  the  long 
run  she  decided  him  not  to  prejudge  as  criminals  people 
who  were  only  contemplating  a  crime,  but  to  spend 
Christmas  Day  at  the  Priory  as  of  yore.  Mrs.  Milvey 
was  devoted  to  Elizabeth,  and  was  also  very  favourably 
inclined  towards  Mervyn,  and  intensely  fond  of  Hetty's 
child.  Secretly  she  thought  the  projected  marriage  a 
most  sensible  one,  even  though  it  might  entail  a  short 
exile  and  a  little  pretence  of  shockedness  on  her  hus- 
band's part.  The  one  point  on  whichx  however,  she, 
once  and  for  all,  expressed  herself  with  a  decision  that 
admitted  no  argument  was  her  husband's  ridiculous 
idea — which  even  he  did  not  contemplate  other  than 
theoretically — that  he  should  give  up  Chacely  and  apply 
to  his  bishop  for  some  other  cure  of  souls.  ..."  He'd 
send  us  to  the  outskirts  of  Birmingham,  if  you  did 
anything  so  very  foolish  and  uncalled  for;  and  we 
should  both  be  dead  in  six  months :  influenza  and 
heartbreak  combined.  Now  change  your  boots,  even 
after  you've  taken  off  the  goloshes,  and  have  a  good 

warm  at  your  study  fire  before  you  come  in  to  lunch." 
#  "  #  *  *  * 

Among  the  house-party  which  stayed  at  Chacely 
Priory  from  Christmas  Day  to  the  New  Year  it  was 
generally  understood  that  Mervyn  intended  to  marry 
Elizabeth  in  South  Africa  whilst  her  father  stayed 
there;  but  that  the  ostensible  and  partly  true  motives 
of  the  two  men  making  this  journey  were  to  inspect  the 
peculiar  and  extraordinary  flora  of  Cape  Colony  and 
conclude  arrangements  for  the  export  of  drug  material. 

This  party  of  Christmas  guests  included  Mervyn — 
if  he  could  be  called  a  "  guest,"  and  Helen  under  like 
conditions — who  had  exclaimed,  arriving  with  her  hus- 
band, "  How  dare  you  call  me  a  '  guest,'  when  I'm  a 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  339 

daughter  of  the  house!  This  is  Elizabeth's  doing!  " — 
and  Helen's  husband,  Madison  Corness,  and  the  won- 
derful eighteen-months'-old  son,  who  was  in  every  way 
a  prodigy,  but  whom  they  had  announced  rather 
patronisingly  "  would  be  able  to  play  with  little  Hetty  " 
— under  proper  supervision.  Hetty,  when  she  heard 
this,  was  quite  scornful  about  playing  with  "  babies," 
owing  to  her  own  advanced  age  of  three,  and  her 
constant  intercourse  with  "  grown-up  people  and 
gardeners,"  as  she  phrased  it.  Hetty  had  no  nurse; 
and  the  possibility  of  a  sad  day  coming  when,  in  the 
absence  of  Elizabeth,  she  would  have  to  accept  the 
attentions  of  a  hired  guardian  was  kept  from  her 
knowledge.  She  consorted  on  quite  equal  terms  with 
the  world  she  had  defined  in  those  terms  "  grown-up 
people  and  gardeners,"  and  although  as  a  "  little  lady  " 
she  realised  that  something  must  be  done  for  her 
eighteen-months'-old  cousin,  it  must  be  something 
marked  on  her  part  by  infinite  condescension  and  no 
rough  play. 

The  vicar  and  Mrs.  Milvey,  who  came  both  to  lunch 
and  to  dine,  and  to  spend  the  evening  on  Christmas 
Day,  would  have  felt  hurt  if  they  had  been  styled 
"  guests,"  however  the  Canon  may  have  fleetingly 
contemplated  some  awful  act  of  renunciation  if  the 
shadow  of  the  Deceased  Wife's  Sister  fell  over  Chacely 
Priory.  .  .  .  "  How  you  men  are  influenced  by  names, 
and  Latin  names !  "  Mrs.  Milvey  had  said  as  they 
walked  up  from  the  church.  "If  you  had  only  called 
it  something  else  you  wouldn't  have  minded  half  so 
much  men  marrying  their  dead  wife's  sister;  but 
'  deceased  '  suggested  '  diseased  '  in  the  minds  of  igno- 
rant people.  I  expect  the  whole  fuss  is  due  to  some 
whimsy  of  James  the  First — nasty,  smelly,  tipsy  old 
thing! — or  Elizabeth,  and  you  can't  uphold  her  moral 
sense.  At  least  not  in  my  hearing !  " 

Other  persons  expected  at  the  Priory  this  Christmas 


340  THE  VENEERINGS 

Day  who  would  have  equally  repudiated  the  calling  of 
"  guests,"  were  Lucy  Milvey  and  her  brother  Ambrose. 
They  both  possessed  sufficient  independence  of  charac- 
ter and  sense  of  being  at  home  to  walk  up  apart  from 
their  parents.  Ambrose  was  a  member  of  Harmon's 
staff  at  Mincing  Lane,  and  had  a  great  deal  to  do  in 
these  later  days  with  the  greenhouses  at  Chacely.  Lucy 
was  by  now  a  mistress  at  a  large  girls'  school  near 
Birmingham,  after  having,  during  the  final  education 
of  the  three  Harmon  daughters,  been  a  sort  of  half- 
assistant,  half-pupil  with  them  under  the  efficient  Miss 
Mitcham.  Miss  Mitcham  might  have  been  with  them 
that  Christmas,  by  the  bye,  but  Harmon's  influence, 
joined  with  that  of  Kew,  had  obtained  an  important 
post  for  her  in  Australia.  So  that  when  you  had 
passed  all  these  affectionate  hangers-on  of  Chacely  in 
review,  in  addition  to  the  hosts,  John  and  Bella  and 
their  children  and  grandchildren,  the  only  "  guests," 
strictly  speaking,  were  Miriam  and  Victor  Cochrane. 
Miriam,  though  a  wealthy  lady  now,  and  just  in- 
clining, ever  so  slightly,  to  be  stout — ever  so  slightly, 
really  not  to  be  noticed  in  a  filmy  evening  costume; 
Miriam,  who  should — you  would  have  thought — have 
been  quite  happy,  now  she  was  distinctly  married,  quite 
away  from  the  stage  and  its  drudgery,  excitement, 
agitating  hopes  and  exasperating  disappointments; 
now  that  she  was  wealthy  with  assured  wealth  and 
much  loved  by  a  fine-looking  husband — of  middle  age 
— Miriam,  though  she  would  never  have  confessed  it, 
save  perhaps  in  the  library,  alone  with  John  Harmon, 
was  not  quite  content  with  her  lot.  So  far  as  she 
sounded  her  own  discontent — all  in  admitting  its  un- 
reasonableness— she  fretted  because  she  had  no  child. 
She  was,  I  think,  forty-three  when  she  married,  and 
she  had  told  John  Harmon,  many  years  before,  that 
her  first  union  with  Cochrane  in  a  marriage  she  never 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  341 

doubted  to  be  legal  (even  though  only  performed  at  a 
Registry  Office)  had  been  followed  by  the  birth  of  a 
child  which  had  died  a  year  later. 

Was  this  "real"  marriage  to  remain  childless? 
That  was  ostensibly  the  problem  which  threw  grains 
of  fret  fulness  into  her  outlook  on  life — since  she  had 
nothing  else  to  fret  about.  No  one  would  have  taken 
her  for  forty-four.  .  .  .  Very  likely,  if  they  did  not 
look  up  records,  they  would  have  only  guessed  "  thirty- 
two,"  for  she  certainly  looked  no  older  than  when  she 
had  first  met  Mervyn.  And  as  to  Victor?  Thirty- 
five,  thirty-six  might  have  been  your  guess,  unless  like- 
wise you  ferreted  into  details.  This  was  very  difficult 
in  1892,  when  there  was  no  "  Who's  Who  "  in  its 
present  form. 

Victor  Cochrane,  in  an  atmosphere  like  Chacely, 
wasn't  quite  a  gentleman  (it  seemed  to  Miriam's  fretful 
observance).  His  clothes  were  too  good,  a  tiny  little 
bit  stagey :  the  frock  coats  too  utterly  "  frock,"  and 
their  turn-over  collars  and  lappets  too  broad  and  too 
glossy;  his  waistcoats  were  too  double-breasted,  his 
country-going  short  jackets  too  short  or  too  fuzzy. 
On  the  stage  you  might  possibly  have  said — if  you 
were  a  woman  and  in  a  box  at  some  one  else's  expense 
— "  How  perfectly  that  man  is  dressed."  The  cheaper 
newspapers  of  the  day,  before  he  retired,  always  re- 
ferred to  Victor's  "  perfect  tailoring." 

But  in  private  life  and  in  the  critical  eyes  of  his  wife 
or  the  unspoken  thoughts  of  the  men  in  the  Harmon 
circle,  he  was  too  well  dressed — with  just  a  suggestion 
(which  his  age — nearly  fifty — rebuked) — of  being  a 
tailor's  dummy,  so  evidently  the  model  from  whom 
fashion  plates  were  drawn. 

Similarly,  to  his  wife's  fastidiousness,  it  seemed  that 
his  laugh  was  too  loud,  his  teeth,  shown  in  laughing, 


342  THE  VENEERINGS 

evinced  too  much  gold  and  too  perfect  a  dentistry,  his 
tie-pins  were  too  large  and  too  valuable,  his  shoes  too 
often  showed  patent  leather  in  their  structure  to  be 
compatible  with  rough  country  walks  and  snow-slush. 

But  Miriam  fortunately  kept  nine-tenths  of  this 
mental  criticism  to  herself,  and  if  she  mentioned  the 
remaining  tenth  in  John  Harmon's  hearing  he  gave  her 
no  sympathy. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  said,  "  I  like  a  well-dressed  man. 
My  own  shabbiness  is  due  to  increasing  age  and  lazi- 
ness. Let  me  see,  your  husband  is  barely  fifty  yet, 
and  I  am  turned  sixty-one.  Victor  teaches  us  all  a 
lesson.  We  all  ought  to  dress  well. .  Mervyn's  getting 
much  too  slack.  I  shall  warn  Elizabeth — whose  own 
dress,  by  the  bye,  looks  a  bit  dowdy.  That  child  occu- 
pies all  her  time  and  thought.  I  hope  you  admired 
Bella's  dress  for  Christmas  Night?  Do  tell  her  so  if 
you  did.  The  darling  tends  to  get  a  bit  droopy  in 
these  days,  with  children  dying  and  going  away.  That's 
one  reason  why  I  am  insisting  on  our  flight  to  the  Cape 
— to  see  my  old  vineyards — that  Hettikins  shall  be  left 
behind  for  Bella  to  look  after.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think 
of  Mervyn  after  twelve  months  of  France?" 

Miriam:  "  Well,  if  /  don't  look  my  age  by  ten  years, 
as  you  are  polite  enough  to  say,  Mervyn  looks  his — 
which  I  suppose  to  be  thirty — to  the  day.  I  never  saw 
any  one  grow  old-looking  so  quickly.  Of  course  I  love 
him,  shall  always  love  him,  with  remembrance  of  his 
influence  on  my  life.  .  .  .  But  he  isn't  nearly  as  good- 
looking  as  he  was,  four  years,  five  years  ago.  Then 
my  head  or  my  heart  reeled  if  I  contemplated  him  too 
long,  even  though  his  thoughts  of  me  were  never  other 
than  filial.  But  I  can't  imagine  his  being  easily  fallen- 
in-love  with  now,  except  for  his  botany — I  suppose 
Elizabeth  is  mad  on  botany ?  " 

Harmon:    "  I  don't  know  about  '  mad  ' :    but  her 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  343 

knowledge  in  that  direction  is  very  remarkable.  If 
she  hadn't  been  so  taken  up  with  that  child  since  1890, 
she  might  actually  have  finished  and  published  and 
assisted  to  illustrate  a  monograph  on  the  drug-yielding 
Asclepiads — at  least,  so  she  says,  when  I  tease  her. 
You  know — seriously — it's  a  curious  case.  She's 
silently  but  almost  passionately  devoted  to  her  sister's 
memory,  has  sworn  a  vow  of  hatred  against  Providence 
and  the  London  doctors  for  her  death ;  and  yet  is  quite 
as  completely  in  love  with  Mervyn  and  resolved  to 
marry  him  and  be  a  mother  to  Hetty.  .  .  .  Well !  So 
much  for  her — and  him — may  they  both  be  happy. 
If  goodness  and  good  looks,  together,  count  for  any- 
thing, they  deserve  to  be.  ...  And  now  about  you — 
and  Victor.  Do  you  like  the  Isle  of  Wight?" 

Miriam:  "  Ye-es.  I  suppose  I  do.  As  much  as  I 
should  like  any  other  home  without  a  child  in  it. 
Why — why — why  do  I  so  long  for  children?  Is  it 
'  idiopathic  '  ?  A  word  I  don't  really  know  the  mean- 
ing of,  only  I  see  it  so  much  now  in  the  Reviews  which 
discuss  morbid  changes  of  mind.  Victor  is  intensely 
fond  of  me — but  '  am  I  too  old  to  have  a  child?  '  is 
what  I  keep  asking  myself  and  longing  to  have  an- 
swered. All  these  confessions  must  scare  you.  They 
must  be  due  to  this  room.  I  remember  it  was  here 
ten  years — no,  eleven  years — ago,  also  somewhere 
about  Christmas  time — that  I  suddenly  told  you  all 
about  myself  and  my  early  marriage — which  I  found 
out  wasn't  a  marriage — to  Victor — and  the  little  child 
that  died.  .  .  .  Well,  I've  made  myself  respectable, 
dear  friend — which,  in  reality,  I  always  have  been ;  and 
I  suppose,  compared  with  many  women  on  the  stage, 
I  ought  to  count  myself  very  lucky — very  lucky.  Above 
all,  in  having  made  such  friends  as  you  and  Bella.  And 
Victor — ho\\  I  hate  the  name — Victor  is  really  a  very 
good  soul.  I  suppose  you  know  he  has  completely 
retired  from  the  theatrical  world  ?  ...  Is  going  in  for 


344  THE  VENEERINGS 

Parliament?  An  Isle  of  Wight  constituency.  Some- 
thing or  other  Imperialist  or  Liberal  Unionist.  Money, 
of  course;  judiciously  laid  out.  Wants  to  be  knighted 
some  day — not  too  long  hence.  .  .  .  All  /  care  about — 
you'll  think  me  really  quite  morbid — is  to  have  a  child 
— a  daughter.  The  one  I  told  you  about  was  a  daugh- 
ter. Then  Victor  can  do  as  he  likes.  I  think  he's 
quite  straight.  And  one  way  and  another,  I've  got 
about  forty  thousand  pounds — my  own  and  his.  You 
know  I  really  did  very  well  out  of  the  stage.  Not 
many  actresses  have  retired  with  so  much  as  that  when 
they  were  just  past  forty — I  mean  in  true  truth!  Of 
course  they  often  pretend  they've  got  lots  more,  poor 
things.  .  .  .  Oh — and  my  people?  It's  been  quite 
comic!  You  know  my  father's  a  bishop?  He  accepted 
the  bishopric  of  Ballarat,  nine  years  ago,  and  went  out 
with  the  old  harridan  he's  married.  She  had  more  than 
three  thousand  a  year — and  influence.  And  now,  after 
interminable  pleadings  and  plaguings  he  thinks  he's 
going  to  get  a  home  bishopric.  Wouldn't  even  mind 
Sodor  and  Man,  because  he  can't  stand  the  Australian 
summers.  Not  that  he  has  done  badly  in  Australia. 
He's  always  kept  himself  under  the  limelight  and  in  the 
newspapers,  and  the  Australians  have  rather  liked  his 
goings-on  and  his  catch-phrases.  ...  As  soon  as  he — 
and  she — heard  I'd  married  Victor,  and  that  Victor 
was  so  well  off — and  /  hadn't  done  badly  out  of  twenty 
years  on  the  boards,  he  wrote  such  gushing  letters — 
and  persuaded  her  to  write  too !  She  signed  herself 
'  Yours  affectionately.'  But  I  never  replied.  I  don't 
care  enough  about  them  to  hate  them." 

Harmon:  "  Well,  that's  all  right !  I  should  cer- 
tainly leave  them  alone  till  you  see  his  English  bish- 
opric gazetted — or  whatever  they  do  about  bishops' 
appointments.  'Lark  if  they  gave  him  Worcester! 
Then  we  should  ask  him  and  her  over  here.  .  .  .  Have 
you  down  at  the  same  time.  .  .  .  But,  Miriam,  don't 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  345 

you  get  down-hearted.  You're  only  at  the  beginning 
of  the  forties.  Only  through — and  very  happily 
through — the  first,  the  strenuous  part  of  your  life. 
In  the  second  half  of  one's  life,  I  can  tell  you,  one  year 
counts  as  two.  I  hope  your  husband  will  get  into 
Parliament,  and  whilst  I'm  there.  I  always  like 
'  Colonials  '  to  get  in.  They're  generally  on  the  wrong 
side  at  first,  and  are  easily  bamboozled  with  attentions 
and  titles  and  orders.  But  they're  difficult  folk  in  the 
long  run  to  deceive,  and  p'raps,  when  there  are  more 
of  them  in,  they  may  make  the  wrong  side  right.  The 
right  side  certainly  seems  to  me  going  wrong — in  many 
ways.  Now  I  hear  faint  echoes  of  voices  that  suggest 
tea.  Let's  go  and  have  some.  Always  '  yours  to 
command,'  you  know !  " 

This  little  party  of  intelligent  people  at  Chacely 
Priory  were  really  sitting  and  talking,  eating  and  walk- 
ing, thinking  and  sighing,  smiling  and  crying — for 
Bella  still  shed  tears  over  the  memory  of  irreplaceable 
Hetty,  and  over  long-absent  and  estranged  Reggie — 
at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  nearer  its 
close  than  the  almanac  told  them.  For  the  beginning 
of  the  New  Age  might  really  be  dated  two  years  from 
their  Christmas  party,  when  the  safety  bicycle  sud- 
denly became  a  necessity  of  universal  adoption,  and 
with  its  pneumatic  tubes  led  to  the  motor  carriage,  the 
motor  lorry,  the  aircraft  heavier-than-air ;  and  a  vastly 
extended  mastery  over  mineral  oil,  innumerable  acids, 
unheard-of  minerals;  some  of  them,  like  radium,  the 
materialising  of  a  Divine  force. 

These  characters  in  my  story  were  playing  about, 
fretting,  laughing,  flirting,  speculating;  wistfully 
aware,  most  of  them,  that  great  happenings  threatened 
below  the  horizon,  heralded  by  an  explicable  glow  of 
dawn  eight  years  before  the  century  formally  closed 
with  the  death  of  Victoria.  Politics  in  1892-1893 


346  THE  VENEERINGS 

were  muddled  by  the  return  to  power  of  a  dying  Glad- 
stone, eager  for  an  Irish  reconciliation  which  Fate 
would  postpone  and  postpone  ironically;  a  Gladstone, 
born  too  early  to  appreciate  the  role  of  science  and  true 
learning,  and  th/?  unimportance  of  religious  specula- 
tions framed  by  men  who*  knew  nothing  of  telescopes 
or  of  the  earth's  relations  with  the  solar  system. 
Labour  was  too  ignorant  to  govern.  Gentility,  more 
or  less  badly  educated,  clothed  as  either  Liberal  or 
Conservative,  Philosophic  Radical  or  Irish  Home 
Ruler,  swayed  opinion  in  the  kingdom  and  the  Empire. 
People — all  but  a  few  eccentrics  of  the  middle  class  on 
solid-tyred  bicycles  of  disproportionate  wheels,  or  in 
unmanageable,  hazardous  balloons — still  went  their 
ways  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  in  vehicles  drawn  by 
horses  or  in  trains  behind  steam-engines.  Women  who 
respected  themselves  and  the  opinions  of  their  male 
relations  never  alluded  to  the  possibility  of  their  want- 
ing or  having  or  placing  a  vote.  Their  costume,  it  is 
true,  at  the  close  of  1892  showed  an  approach  to  reason 
and  simplicity,  better  than  in  the  false  dawn  of  1867; 
a  relief  from  the  insane  bulging,  excessive  weight,  and 
expensive  fal-bal-las  of  the  middle  'eighties,  or  the 
swaddled  clothing  from  head  to  heels  of  the  later 
'seventies.  Women  in  their  dress — as  may  be  seen  in 
Du  Maurier's  drawings — had  entered  on  a  charming 
period  of  sanity  and  grace. 

Only  thirty  years  ago;  and  some  of  the  people  I 
have  dealt  with  are  still  living  (thanks  to  Harmon, 
Veneering's  wonderful  discoveries  in  drugs),  still 
hoping,  despite  the  War  and  its  effects,  still  smiling 
bravely  at  the  unfolded  future ;  still  confident  as  to  the 
marvellous  prospects  of  the  human  race.  .  .  . 

The  talk  of  John  Harmon,  of  Mervyn  even,  of 
happy  confident  Madison  Corness,  of  ambitious  Victor 
Cochrane,  and  of  dear  Elizabeth — all  aglow  with  the 
thought  that  the  coming  year  solved  her  problem  of 


MERVYN  AND  ELIZABETH  347 

marriage  and  motherhood — dispelled  the  doubts  of  the 
sad  and  tremulous,  cynical  and  anxious  members  of  the 
little  party,  which  sat  up  till  midnight  on  December  31, 
1892,  to  see  the  New  Year  in.  The  vicar  and  his  wife 
sat  with  them,  silent ;  it  may  be,  praying ;  and  the  vicar 
hoping  that  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister 
would  not  shatter  the  fabric  of  the  Established  Church. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN    SOUTH    AFRICA 

AND  this  is  Cape  Town,  after  thirty-three  years !  " 
said  John  Harmon,  one  morning  in   February, 

1893- 

It  was  still  early,  between  seven  and  eight;  he  and 
Mervyn  had  risen  in  good  time  because  they  knew  their 
steamer  had  entered  Table  Bay  and  was  cautiously 
approaching  the  wharf  along  the  breakwater.  Soon 
Elizabeth  would)  be  by  their  side,  and  they  would  be 
leaving  the  ship  for  some  hotel.  Harmon  stared  pen- 
sively at  the  splendid  prospect.  No  mountain  range 
anywhere  looks  to  such  advantage  in  conjunction  with 
an  outspread  town  as  Table  Mountain  to  the  south  of 
Cape  Town.  Its  height  might  be  guessed  by  an  en- 
thusiast in  landscapes  at  five  thousand  feet,  nothing 
less,  though  in  reality  its  highest  point  is  not  much  over 
three  thousand,  five  hundred  feet.  It  is  normally  a 
great  blue  wall  behind  a  splendid  spread  of  pinkish- 
white,  yellow-white  buildings,  through  which  meanders 
a  broad  stream  of  dark  green  trees  marking  public 
gardens,  road-side  avenues,  and  squares,  while,  in  addi- 
tion, a  date  palm  here  a  date  palm  there  gives  the 
reminiscent  touch  of  Africa.  I  doubt  whether  there 
is  any  city  in  the  British  Empire  with  the  beauty  and 
majesty  of  Cape  Town,  as  seen  from  the  harbour. 

So  must  have  thought  Harmon  as  he  gazed  on  it  in 
the  second  month  of  1893,  so  marvellously  had  it 
changed  from  the  restricted  little  Dutch  town  he  had 
left  in  1860.  Then  the  eye  must  have  rested  mainly 

348 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  349 

on  the  long  blue  wall  of  the  mountains,  from  the 
Devil's  Peak  on  the  east  to  the  Lion's  Head  and  Rump 
on  the  west ;  and  the  capital  of  South  Africa  in  those 
days  must  have  been  limited  to  a  compact  little  Dutch 
town  of  flat-roofed  houses,  and  a  castle  of  the  early 
eighteenth  century  near  the  shore.  Now  it  was  a  far- 
spreading  metropolis  stretching  several  miles  into  the 
background  till  its  white  houses  splashed  the  base  and 
even  the  ramparts  of  Table  Mountain. 

They  found  their  way,  half  in  a  dream,  perhaps  in 
a  carriage — they  never  could  remember — but  escorted 
by  an  hotel  porter  of  mixed  race  to  what  was  then 
deemed  the  "  best "  hotel,  somewhere  in  Adderley 
Street:  rather  a  soup-smelling,  outwardly  white-and- 
green,  inwardly  small-roomed,  stuffily  furnished  hos- 
telry, nearly  as  old  in  name,  if  not  in  building,  as  the 
1806  occupation. 

To  Harmon,  in  1860,  it  would  have  seemed  too  smart 
to  enter;  now,  after  so  many  years  of  life  at  its  highest 
level,  in  England  and  France,  he  rather  shrank  from 
its  Oriental  dinner  smell  and  its  overcrowded  furniture. 
However 

A  distinctly  good  breakfast  restored  cheerfulness. 
Being  a  man  of  action  and  ascertaining  that  His 
Excellency  was  in  town  and  likely  to  be  at  home, 
Harmon  decided  to  proceed  to  Government  House, 
present  his  letters  of  credence,  and  see  the  Governor, 
if  he  was  visible. 

He  drove  to  Government  House,  his  eyes  feasting 
on  the  real  distinction,  even  then,  the  beauty,  one  might 
have  said  of  the  great  city,  so  curiously  large  and 
widespread  if  you  glanced  at  the  modest  totality  in 
figures  of  its  very  diverse  population.  Samples  of 
this  he  saw  from  his  carriage  windows :  white,  red- 
cheeked  men  of  northern  European  stock;  white,  but 
sun-tanned,  fair-haired  Afrikanders;  yellow-skinned, 
black-haired  nondescripts — "  Cape  Boys  " — some 


350  THE  VENEERINGS 

nearly  white  enough  to  be  called  "  Europeans,"  others 
bordering  on  the  Asiatic  or  the  Hottentot.  As  to 
genuine  Asiatics,  there  were  Malays,  dressed  half  in 
Oriental  half  in  European  style;  Indians — wholly 
Indian  in  costume,  much  hairier  and  better- featured 
than  the  Malays ;  negroes  of  all  types  and  all  grades  of 
costume,  except  that  there  was  little  nudity;  negro 
half-castes  smartly  attired;  and  English  soldiers  in 
scarlet  uniform,  looking  almost  aggressively  English. 

But  the  drive  to  Government  House  did  not  take 
long,  and  with  little  delay  Harmon  found  himself  in 
a  spacious  library,  looking  on  to  a  lovely  garden,  with 
the  Governor  sitting — more  or  less — at  his  massive 
writing-table,  and  himself  in  an  armchair  facing  the 
Governor. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Harmon,  of  course  I  remember  you, 
perfectly ;  heard  you  speak  once  or  twice  in  the  House. 
.  .  .  And  what  gives  us  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
here?  I  had  no  idea  you  contemplated  a  visit  to 
South  Africa,  and  during  the  time  our  home  Parlia- 
ment is  sitting." 

"  As  to  that,"  Harmon  replied,  "  an  elderly  man  like 
myself  must  have  an  occasional  holiday,  and  I  have,  of 
course,  arranged  for  a  '  pair.'  I  don't  think  the  Min- 
istry is  menaced  before  I  can  get  back.  And  even  if 
they  are,  I  don't  know  that  I  care  very  deeply.  We 
are  all  at  sixes-and-sevens  over  our  politics  at  home, 
and  although  my  party  is  '  in,'  it  is  on  a  very  insecure 
tenure,  and  the  bulk  of  us  only  sympathise  with  poor 
old  Gladstone  in  theory  and  not  in  practice ;  we  are  in 
a  transitional  state  of  mind.  .  .  .  But  I  don't — can't — 
intend  to  be  awa}*  for  very  long:  my  business — the 
drug  business,  I  mean — won't  let  me.  Unfortunately, 
there  are  other  complications." 

And  here  he  told  the  Governor  as  briefly  as  possible 
the  story  of  Mervyn  and  Elizabeth. 

"  I  had  an  idea,"  he  resumed,  "  that  marriage  with 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  351 

a  deceased  wife's  sister  was  now  legal  at  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope ;  we  have  come  out  here  in  that  hope ;  and 
as  soon  as  it  can  be  settled  and  I  have  seen  them 
married,  I  shall  turn  about  and  go  home  as  quickly  as 
a  steamer  can  take  me.  But  that  is  not  my  only  object 
in  coming  out  to  the  Cape — if  I  may  tell  you  now,  arid 
am  not  too  hideously  wasting  your  morning?  " 

"  You're  not  wasting  my  morning,  for  your  affairs 
interest  me.  But  supposing  I  suggest  this :  That  as  I 
have  things  I  must  attend  to  now  with  my  private 
secretary — ah,  here  he  is.  ...  Ready  in  a  moment, 
Breasted — you  should  return  here  to  lunch — half -past 
one — and  that  after  lunch  we  should  go  into  all  the 
matters  that  interest  you?  Let  me  see,  what  are 
they?" 

"  Well,"  replied  Harmon,  "  there  is  this  marriage 
business,  Veneering  and  my  daughter;  and  whilst  that 
is  being  arranged  for,  I  want  to  go  up  country  a  con- 
siderable distance  and  see  if  I  cannot  meet  my  eldest 
son,  Captain  Reggie  Harmon,  who  was  your  A.D.C." 

The  Governor:  "  Of  course,  Reggie.  Now  I  know 
why  your  face  and  voice  and  name  seemed  so  familiar 
to  me !  " 

Harmon:  "  I  did  write  to  him  last  Christmas,  but 
I  thought  I  would  let  him  have  a  telegram  now,  if  the 
line  functions.  ...  I  dare  say  I  could  go  to  the  com- 
pany's office  in  this  town  and  find  out  where  he  is?  " 

"  Precisely.  Well,  then,  you  do  all  that  and  come 
back  to  lunch;  then  I  will  drive  you  out  somewhere 
and  we  can  talk  all  these  things  over  quietly." 

It  was  now  twelve,  so  Harmon  drove  to  the  Cape 
Town  office  of  the  Chartered  Company.  After  a  short 
wait,  the  Secretary  hurried  in,  shook  hands  effusively, 
and  drew  him  into  his  own  office,  which  was  in  a  state 
of  staggering  untidiness. 

He  was  a  good-looking  man,  rather  carelessly 
dressed,  with  merry  eyes  and  yet  conveying  a  curious 


352  THE  VENEERINGS 

impression  of  conspiracy.  Did  he  (Harmon  wondered) 
go  on  like  this  with  every  caller,  or  was  he  engaged  in 
half  a  dozen  plots  of  which,  as  a  special  favour,  he 
furnished  Harmon  with  an  outline?  However,  he 
professed  to  know  all  about  Reggie  and  to  be  expressly 
delighted  with  Reggie's  parent's  having  come  to  inquire 
after  his  son  and  the  company's  doings.  Would  the 
latter  excuse  him?  He  would  just  telephone  to  Mr. 
Rhodes,  at  Groote  Schuur,  and  announce  Mr.  Har- 
mon's arrival. 

This  was  quickly  done.  Then  ensued  an  interval  in 
which  they  talked  of  nothing  very  important,  while  a 
sombre-looking  person,  faultlessly  dressed,  came  in 
with  papers  to  be  signed.  They  were  signed  amid 
muttered,  under-voiced  explanations.  "  On  the  whole," 
resumed  the  Secretary.  .  .  .  Ting-ting-ting — went  the 
telephone  bell.  "  Ah,  that  is  Mr.  Rhodes,  evidently." 
(To  the  telephone)  :  "Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  What  did 
you  say?  Why,  he's  here,  in  my  office.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'll 
see,  I'll  ask  him.  .  .  .  Mr.  Harmon,  Mr.  Rhodes  asks 
if  you  can  come  out  and  see  him  this  afternoon?  " 
"Certainly.  Will  four  o'clock  be  too  early?" 
"  No,  I'm  sure  it  won't.  I'll  let  him  know.  You're 
lunching  with  the  Governor?  Good-bye  then,  for  the 
present." 

Then  back  to  the  hotel,  a  slight  change  of  costume,  a 
different  tie,  and  off  again  to  Government  House.  The 
Governor's  lady  had  met  Mr.  Harmon  in  London,  of 
course  (both  adjust  their  memories),  and  they  both 
know  Suzanne  Feenix,  and  if  it  were  only  as  Reggie's 
father,  he  was  welcome.  Both  the  Governor  and  his 
wife  believe  Reggie  is  doing  very  well  with  the 
Chartered  Company,  though  they  were  sorry  to  lose 
him. 

"  He's  too  ambitious,  Mr.  Harmon,  if,  indeed,  one 
can  say  that  of  any  young  man.  But  he  could  never 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  353 

have  stayed  very  long  with  us,  living  mostly  in  a  palace 
of  this  kind.  ...  You  see,  my  constitutional  duties 
keep  me  tied  a  good  deal  to  Cape  Town." 

After  lunch,  a  victoria  and  a  pair  of  horses  conveyed 
the  Governor  and  his  guest  to  Groote  Schuur,  where 
Rhodes  had  taken  up  his  residence.  The  Governor's 
wife  had  asked  Mr.  Harmon  if  he  and  his  daughter 
would  like  to  stay  a  few  days  with  them  at  Cape  Town, 
but  nothing  was  said  about  Mervyn.  Why?  Prob- 
ably only  forgetfulness,  but  Harmon  felt  instinctively 
that  it  might  be  on  account  of  the  projected  marriage — 
taking  place,  as  it  was  likely  to  do,  so  soon  after  its 
legality  had  been  established.  It  might,  indeed,  be  the 
first  under  the  new  law.  This,  perhaps,  made  the 
situation  a  little  strained.  Then  again,  he  had  not 
much  time  to  spare  at  Cape  Town  itself.  Mervyn 
would  reside  there  for  the  prescribed  period  before  the 
marriage,  and  fulfil  all  other  regulations.  Elizabeth 
and  her  father  would  spend  the  last  month  of  her  single 
life  together.  They  would  visit  the  old  haunts  round 
Constantia,  where  he  had  once  worked  on  the  vine- 
yards of  kind  old  Jan  or  Johannes  de  Vries.  Then, 
when  Reggie  had  answered,  telling  them  he  could  trek 
back  to  the  railway  terminus  in  time  to  meet  them, 
they  would  make  their  way  to  wherever  the  northern 
railway  stopped — Vrijburg,  was  it? — and  see  him 
there. 

Harmon  thought  Lady  Loch's  attention  wandered  a 
little  through  his  rather  confused  explanations.  How- 
ever, she  accepted  them  pleasantly.  And  now  her  hus- 
band was  saying  good-bye  to  him  at  Groote  Schuur, 
and  an  English  butler,  with  a  very  superior  air,  was 
awaiting  his  intimation  as  to  who  he  was,  while  the 
Governor  was  being  driven  away. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  he  was  looking  at  Rhodes 
in  a  handsomely-furnished  study,  with  great  window 
seats  and  views  through  the  windows  over  a  beautiful 


354  THE  VENEERINGS 

garden.  .  .  .  Green  turf  in  foreground,  beds  of  blue 
lilies  and  enormous  pink  hydrangeas. 

"I  remembered  the  name  at  once"  (Rhodes  was 
saying).  "  Rather  a  peculiar  one — seem  to  have  read 
it  in  one  of  Dickens'  novels."  He  moved  from  a 
writing-table  to  the  window  seats.  "  Have  some  tea? 
You  come  and  sit  here,  by  the  window.  Lovely  view 
of  Table  Mountain,  isn't  it?"  (To  servant)  "Tea, 
please.  .  .  .  Well :  about  your  boy.  He's  been  with  us 
since  1890,  I  fancy.  I've  no  idea  where  he  is  just  now, 
but  we've  got  the  line — telegraph,  I  mean — nearly  up 
to  the  Zambezi,  so  we  can  easily  find  out;  arid,  of 
course,  if  things  are  going  on  pretty  smoothly  he  shall 
have  leave  of  absence  enough  to  come  and  see  you, 
especially  if  you're  going  half-way.  To  rail-end,  I 
mean.  What's  your  age?  Sixty-two?  Well,  you 
don't  look  it,  you  don't  look  much  older  than  /  am, 
and  I'm  twenty  years  younger  than  that.  All  comes, 
I  suppose,  of  the  drug  business!  Found  out  some 
Water  of  Life,  something  to  keep  you  eternally  young. 
But  what  brings  you  out  here?  Not  to  see  your  son 
only,  I'll  bet." 

"  No,"  said  Harmon.  "  That's  not  the  only  reason." 
Tea  came  in  at  this  point,  and  he  decided  to  reserve  his 
confidences.  The  English  butler  and  a  Cape  Boy  foot- 
man spent  a  minute  or  two  arranging  the  tea-things 
and  the  table  of  bread  and  butter,  toast,  cakes,  and 
confitures,  and  then  went  out.  Rhodes  poured  out  the 
tea  and  waved  a  hand  towards  the  eatables.  He  then 
said: 

"  Thought  it  wasn't,  because  your  old  Parliament  at 
home  is  sitting  just  now.  Well!  What  is  it?" 

"  Fact  is,"  said  Harmon,  deciding  to  give  him  all  his 
confidence,  "  I've  got  another  family  problem  to  solve. 
You — and,  I  suspect,  it  was  largely  you — have  legalised 
here  the  deceased  wife's  sister  marriage;  and  for  the 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  355 

last  ten  years  there's  been  such  a  passion  for  marrying 
— or  trying  to  marry — your  deceased  wife's  sisters  that 
I  expect  the  news  of  what  your  Parliament  has  done 
here  will  presently  bring  quite  a  number  of  young  men 
and  women  out  to  the  Cape.  Well,  we've  come  for 
that  purpose.  ...  In  my  firm  is  a  very  fine  young 
fellow,  Mervyn  Veneering,  son  of  the  old  Veneering 
who  really  started  this  drugs'  manufacture  on  a  new 
basis,  modernised  it,  in  fact.  Not  to  make  too  long  a 
story  of  it,  his  son,  Mervyn,  married  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter. She — poor  thing — one  of  those  sorrows  you  can 
never  forget — died  a  week  or  so  after  her  confinement 
— puerperal  fever — and  left  a  little  daughter,  happily 
still  living.  My  second  girl,  Elizabeth,  took  charge  of 
this  child  while  its  father  travelled  in  Tropical  America. 
After  he  came  back  the  likeness  between  the  two  sisters 
was  too  much  for  him.  He  wanted  to  marry  Eliza- 
beth, and  Elizabeth  had  fallen  in  love  with  him.  I 
counselled  the  usual  sort  of  delay  and  respites  a  well- 
meaning  father  would  advise.  ...  A  year  in  France 
followed — Pyrenees,  you  know,  where  we  had  long 
since  started  herb  cultivation  grounds.  .  .  .  Thank 
you,  I  will  have  another  cup.  It's  three  weeks  since 
I've  drunk  such  tea.  Why  is  it,  on  board  ship.  .  .  . 
However,  I  can  talk  about  that  afterwards.  .  .  .  Last 
year,  in  the  autumn,  I  saw  in  the  Press  that  you  were 
going  to  bring  in  a  Bill  here  to  make  this  perfectly 
reasonable  marriage  legal;  so,  as  Mervyn  and  Eliza- 
beth were  still  obstinately  determined  to — to — well,  to 
get  married  somewhere,  somehow,  or  failing  that,  to 
live  together  as  though  they  were  married,  I  persuaded 
them  to  wait  till  everything  was  through  here  and 
come  out;  and  said  if  they'd  do  everything  as  I  di- 
rected, I'd  come  with  Elizabeth  and  lend  the  utmost — 
er — er — sanction  I  could  to  the  union.  So  here  we 
are ;  and  while  Mervyn  is  making  all  the  arrangements 


356  THE  VENEERINGS 

to  be  married  and  putting  in  the  necessary  term  of  resi- 
dence, I  thought  my  daughter  and  I  might  be  making 
this  journey  into  the  interior  ...  to  see  Reggie." 

"  I  see ;  but  you  can't  be  in  such  a  damned  hurry  to 
leave  Cape  Town.  I  dare  say  the  hotel  is  not  much  to 
boast  of.  We  are  on  the  eve  of  changing  all  that,  and 
if  you  come  out  again  next  year  you'll  find  an  hotel 
equal  to  the  Cecil  or  the  Savoy.  Didn't  the  Governor 
ask  you  to  stay  there?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  did — exactly — though  he  was  most 
kind.  But  his  wife  did;  only  I  told  her  we  were  so 
anxious  to  get  away  up  country.  There's  no  denying 
it;  Mervyn — my  son-in-law — is  the  difficulty.  This 
marriage  is  new  even  here;  I  mean,  it  has  only  been 
possible  for  about  two  months;  people  are  still  very 
much  against  it  in  England — and,  of  course,  for  the 
Governor  to  entertain  us  at  his  house  just  beforehand. 
.  .  .  However,  let  us  assume  they  did  ask  us,  and  that 
I  declined,  so  as  to  have  more  freedom  to  travel." 

"All  right:  assume  anything  you  like;  but  I  think 
you  might  very  well  come  and  stay  with  me  here  from 
Saturday  till  Monday,  with  your  young  lady,  of  course, 
and  Mr. What's  his  name?  Van  Eering?" 

"  His  mother  nowadays  actually  spells  and  pro- 
nounces it  like  that;  but  his  father  always  spelt  it 
'Veneering/  though  I  dare  say  it  did  come,  a 
century  or  two  ago,  from  a  Dutch  or  Flemish  name. 
Well :  it  is  very  kind  and  the  hotel  is  far  from  com- 
fortable; we'll  accept,  Elizabeth  and  I,  and  Mervyn, 
too,  if  you  have  got  room  for  all  three,  and  if  it  doesn't 
complicate  matters,  his  sleeping  out  of  Cape  Town." 

"  In  any  case,  you  and  your  daughter  come — to-day's 
Thursday — come  to-morrow  or  Saturday,  and  stay 
over  the  week-end — if  you  can't  stay  longer.  I  know 
a  lot  about  minerals,  but  very  little  about  botany. 
Your  Mervyn,  I  suppose,  after  he's  married,  is  staying 
on  a  bit  to  study  our  plants?  I'd  like  to  help  him. 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  357 

Of  course  we've  got  one  or  two  great  men  out  here, 
studying  the  flora,  and  all  that,  but  no  one  doing  so 
from  the  point  of  view  of  what  the  bally  plants  are 
worth  .  .  .  except  the  Disa  orchids.  I've  been  in 
these  lands  ever  since  1870,  and  I  think,  from  what 
I've  seen  of  '  native  '  medicine  and  even  the  plants  the 
Boers  use,  there  are  lots  of  things  you  might  turn  into 
first-class  drugs.  Your  son-in-law  ought  to  go  up 
Table  Mountain.  Most  of  the  things  have  done  flower- 
ing now,  but  that  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  he 
examined  roots  and  seeds." 

"  I'll  certainly  tell  him,"  said  Harmon,  "  and  as  to 
your  invitation  to  us  ...  I  accept,  without  making 
too  many  phrases  about  it.  I  expect  both  the  Gover- 
nor and  his  lady  will  understand  that,  under  the 
circumstances — well,  I  don't  suppose  they'll  notice. 
When  I  return  from  the  interior  and  the  marriage  is 
over  and  done  with,  and  if  they  ask  me  again  before 
I  go  home  ...  I  could  go,  and  not  feel  I  was  in- 
volving them  too  much  in  my  daughter's  affairs." 

"  All  right,  then.  I'll  tell  the  servants  now,  because 
I  have  a  way  of  forgetting  things." 

(Rings.     Enter  butler.) 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  say,  while  I  remembered  it,  that 
Mr.  Harmon  and  Miss  Harmon  are  coming  here  to- 
morrow morning  to  stay  for  a  few  days.  See  that  two 
rooms  are  got  ready.  And  another  gentleman.  ..." 
(To  Harmon)  "What  did  you  say  his  name  was? 
Veneering?  ..."  (To  butler)  :  "  Mr.  Veneering 
will  be  coming  to  lunch  and  p'raps  to  dinner  most  of 
these  days."  (To  Harmon)  :  "  If  we  find  he's  got  to 
sleep  in  town  to  comply  with  the  regulations  about  his 
licence,  we  can  send  him  back  every  night."  (Servant 
goes  out.)  "Well,  that's  done  with.  And  now,  as 
I've  got  to  go  into  Cape  Town,  to  the  office,  I  can 
drive  you  back  to  the  hotel.  I  expect  my  brougham's 
waiting." 


358  THE  VENEERINGS 

Harmon  was  fairly  tired  when  he  was  deposited  at 
his  hotel.  Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  were  seated  at  a  tea 
table  in  the  verandah,  or,  as  it  was  locally  phrased, 
"  on  the  stoep."  "  My  dear  father,"  exclaimed  the 
latter.  "  I  was  beginning  to  get  quite  anxious ! 
Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  my  long  story  by  degrees ;  but,  wher- 
ever I  have  been,  it  was  mainly  on  your  affairs — and 
Mervyn's.  Fortunately,  I  am  pretty  well  able  now  to 
instruct  him  what  to  do;  and  as  to  you,  you  must 
accompany  me  to-morrow  to  stay  with  the  Prime  Min- 
ister, out  at  Rondebosch.  I  dare  say  I  have  rather 
muddled  the  business  in  not  arranging  for  Mer  to  stay 
there  too,  but  I  wasn't  quite  sure  of  the  licence  regu- 
lations and  whether,  if  the  marriage  is  to  take  place 
in  Cape  Town,  Mervyn  hadn't  better  go  on  living  the 
prescribed  term — a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  or  what- 
ever it  is — at  this  hotel.  At  any  rate,  I've  settled  it 
that  way;  and  I  thought,  as  soon  as  the  preliminaries 
were  settled — everything  that  concerned  you,  my  dear 
— you  and  I  would  go  off  far  into  the  interior  and  try 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  Reggie — go  by  rail,  of  course — and 
finally  come  back  and  marry  you  off  here.  That  'ud 
be  in  about  a  month,  one  way  and  another.  Now,  I'm 
so  tired  I  shall  give  you  no  more  explanations  .till  to- 
morrow. You  must  be  ready  then  with  a  sufficiency 
of  luggage,  to  go  with  me  and  stay  at  Rondebosch  till 
Monday.  We  leave  here  about  eleven-thirty.  Mervyn 
is  to  come  too,  though  he  may  have  to  return  to  sleep 
at  the  hotel.  Everything  else  shall  be  explained  when 
I've  had  a  rest." 

They  reached  Groote  Schuur  by  rail  and  carriage  at 
half -past  twelve.  A  hasty  flick  of  toilette  for  Eliza- 
beth, a  brush-up  and  a  brush-down  for  the  men,  and 
they  were  in  the  large  drawing-room,  where  an  ani- 
mated conversation  in  English  and  Cape  Dutch  was 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  359 

going  on.  Rhodes  was  not  there.  There  were,  per- 
haps, twelve  or  thirteen  people  present.  Harmon  and 
Veneering  instinctively  felt  that  one  lady  out  of  the 
four  was  in  the  position  of  hostess  by  her  wearing  no 
hat ;  so  to  her  they  went  up  and  introduced  themselves, 
and  Elizabeth. 

She  was  an  attractive,  handsome  creature,  who,  they 
afterwards  gathered,  was  a  Mrs.  Reinhard,  wife  of 
Charles  Reinhard,  a  Cape  politician,  who  had  just 
returned  from  Johannesburg.  Though  there  had  been 
no  sign  of  other  guests  staying  in  the  house  upon 
Harmon's  arrival  yesterday,  she  evidently  was  in  the 
position  of  leading  lady  ...  a  woman  in  the  thirties 
(Harmon  told  himself,  summing  her  up)  ...  most 
attractive,  sympathique. 

Mrs.  Reinhard,  amid  a  rather  embarrassing  hush, 
said:  "So  you  are  the  celebrated  Mr.  Harmon,  who  is 
going  to  cure  us  of  all  our  health  troubles?  I  have 
only  once  been  in  London — two  years  ago — but  my 
husband  and  I — here  is  my  husband — Charles  Rein- 
hard — and  that,  over  there,  is  his  brother,  Julius." 
(She  pronounced  it  "  Yulius,"  then  corrected  herself.) 
"  What  am  I  saying?  I  mean  D Julius — Reinhard. 
You  know  I  am  Cape  Dutch,  and  still  forget  a  '  j  ' 
isn't  a  '  y.}  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure  your  daughter — She  is 
your  daughter? — ought  not  to  play  hostess?  How- 
ever, she  is  younger  and  ...  I  suppose?  .  .  .  un- 
married, and  I  came  here  yesterday.  Come,  my  dear, 
and  sit  next  to  me  on  this  ottoman.  We  are  waiting 
for  Mr.  Rhodes.  .  .  .  Here  he  is !  " 

And  Rhodes,  looking  a  little  untidy,  in  crumpled 
clothes,  and  abstracted  in  thought,  entered  at  this 
moment  and  bestowed  on  the  English,  Boer,  French, 
and  international  Jewish  gathering  a  few  words,  and 
gave  a  silent  handshake  to  Harmon  and  Elizabeth. 
Then  luncheon  was  announced  by  the  English  butler, 


360  THE  VENEERINGS 

and  the  party — seventeen,  eighteen,  no,  Harmon 
counted  twenty  in  all — trooped  into  a  large  dining- 
room. 

Mrs.  Reinhard  sat  on  one  side  of  Rhodes,  Elizabeth 
on  the  other.  A  private  secretary — the  faultlessly- 
dressed,  sombre-looking  young  man  whom  Harmon 
had  seen  the  preceding  day  at  the  Chartered  Company's 
office — took  the  other  end  of  the  long  table,  having 
on  one  side  of  him  the  wife  of  a  bank-manager,  and 
on  the  other  a  nondescript  lady  of  little  interest. 

Once  the  women  were  settled,  the  men  guests  placed 
themselves  where  they  liked ;  so  Harmon  dropped  into 
the  chair  next  to  the  bank-manager's  wife,  as  five  or 
ten  minutes  later  he  discovered  her  to  be.  ...  Also 
he  found  she  had  only  been  at  Cape  Town  a  few  weeks 
— as  a  married  woman — though  she  had  come  out  there 
on  a  visit  the  previous  winter.  She  was  distinctly 
pretty,  North  Irish,  and  her  husband  was  that  good- 
looking,  rather  soldierly  man  on  the  other  side  of 
Elizabeth.  "  My  husband,"  she  informed  him,  "  if  he 
can't  sit  next  me — you  see,  we've  not  been  married 
very  long — always  makes  for  what  he  would  call  the 
next-best-looking  woman  in  the  room.  I'm  only  try- 
ing to  give  you  his  words.  They  wouldn't  be  strictly 
accurate  on  this  occasion.  The  best-looking  woman 
here  present  is,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Reinhard — don't  you 
think  so  ?  Because — well,  she  seems  to  have  come  into 
her  own,  it  is  one  of  those  faces  that  have  required 
a  little  time  beyond  girlhood  to  develop.  But  your 
daughter  ? — I  am  right :  she  is  your  daughter  ? — when 
she  is  Mrs.  Reinhard's  age,  will  be  even  more  beau- 
tiful." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  I  scarcely  like  to 
follow  on  so  dangerous  a  path,  but — you  are  a  rival, 
at  least." 

"  Oh,  I  ?  Well,  I  expect  I  am  a  year  or  two  older 
than  Miss — er — Harmon,  and  several  years  younger 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  361 

than  Mrs.  Reinhard.  But  we've  embarked  on  a  danger- 
ous trend  in  conversation.  Let's  try  something  safer, 
less  personal,  than  looks.  And  in  the  meantime,  don't 
say  '  no,  thank  you  '  to  those  prawns — if  they  are 
prawns — I  believe  they're  some  small,  local  kind  of 
lobster." 

"  You  say  quite  truly :  they  are  actually  a  relation 
of  our  own  northern  lobster,  just  found  round  about 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope." 

"  Dear  me  ...  this  is  a  staggerer !  I  was  taking 
every  advantage  of  you  as  a  new-comer.  You've  been 
to  the  Cape  before?  " 

"  I  came  here  as  a  youth — eighteen,  or  thereabouts — 
and  worked  not  many  miles  away  from  here,  at  Con- 
stantia,  and  elsewhere  in  Cape  Colony:  returned  to 
England  in  1860,  and  am  now  seeing  Cape  Colony 
like  .  .  .  almost  like  one  who  had  never  been  here 
before." 

"  How  curious !  Yet  at  this  house  one  meets  with 
strange  things.  It  is  only  the  second  time  I  have  been 
here  since  I  married.  My  husband  is  the  manager  of 
Mr.  Rhodes's  bank.  I  met  him  first  when  I  came  out 
last  year  to  stay  with  my  brother  and  his  wife.  My 
brother  is  in  the  garrison." 

The  private  secretary  here  addressed  some  remark 
to  Mrs. — he  hadn't  caught  her  name,  exactly — Mrs. 
Richardson  f — and  Harmon,  released  for  the  moment, 
glanced  at  Rhodes's  end  of  the  table.  Mervyn  was 
on  the  same  side  as  himself,  sitting  next  to  Mrs. 
"  Reintje,"  as  he  found  she  was  called  among  her 
friends — so,  at  least,  he  was  informed  by  his  neigh- 
bour on  the  left,  a  Jew  with  shrewd  eyes,  a  heavy  jaw, 
but  rather  a  prepossessing  face.  Rhodes  was  talking 
most  to  Elizabeth,  who  was  looking  undoubtedly  hand- 
some and  with  more  colour  in  her  cheeks  than  of  late. 
There  were  just  these  four  women  and  sixteen  men : 
Rhodes,  the  private  secretary  (name  not  disclosed), 


362  THE  VENEERINGS 

Mr.  Charles  "  Reintje  "  opposite,  himself,  Mervyn,  and 
eleven  others.  Of  these,  again,  his  left-hand  neigh- 
bour and  two  or  three  more  were  Jews  of  varied  types. 
The  others  were  English,  Cape  Dutch,  a  German — 
possibly — and,  judging  from  his  accent,  a  Frenchman. 

Two  of  the  lunchers,  in  addition  to  Reinhard,  seemed 
to  be  members  of  the  Cape  Legislature.  The  re- 
mainder, from  the  scraps  of  talk  he  heard,  were 
apparently  connected  with  mines  of  different  kinds. 
Elizabeth  was  talking  to  Rhodes  about  botany  and 
about  Mervyn's  work,  the  Pyrenees,  and  his  discoveries 
in  Central  America;  and  Rhodes,  who  at  first,  as  he 
sat  down  to  lunch,  had  looked  heavy  and  bored,  seemed 
genuinely  interested.  Mervyn  threw  in  a  word  or  two, 
to  confirm  or  explain,  and  the  man  on  the  other  side 
of  Elizabeth — seemingly  a  German — added  some  facts 
about  the  Cape  flora  which  were  evidently  sensational, 
only  Harmon  could  not  catch  them. 

Moreover,  the  man  on  his  left  was  telling  him  some 
extraordinary  things  about  diamonds.  Then  he  had 
some  more  talk  with  the  distinctly  pretty  Mrs.  Richard- 
son. She  had  made  some  remark  about  his  thumbs, 
and — it  seemed — was  much  interested  in  palmistry. 
He  promised  to  show  her  his  hand  after  lunch,  though 
frankly,  he  said,  he  thought  it  all  rubbish.  .  .  .  How- 
ever  

"  The  old  palmistry,  mainly  founded  on  Desbarolles, 
was — a  great  deal  of  it — rubbish.  .  .  .  But  have  you 
read  Heron  Allen's  books,  or  Mrs.  Robinson's?  I 
can't  help  thinking  hands  tell  character,  inclinations, 
disposition,  with  remarkable  truth.  What  I  am  dying 
to  do  is  to  see  Mr.  Rhodes's  hands,  I  mean  close  to. 
But  I  haven't  the  courage  to  ask  him!  He  would 
think  it  so  '  forward  '  on  my  part.  You  can't  imagine 
what  some  of  the  women  are  like  here,  in  pushing 
themselves  on  his  attention." 

By  this  time  dessert  had  been  sufficiently  trifled  with, 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  363 

after  a  Lucullian  repast.  So  their  host  rose  and  pro- 
posed as  the  weather  was  so  brilliant  they  should  drink 
their  coffee  on  the  stoep  of  the  garden  side.  They 
passed  out,  therefore,  pausing  to  talk  here,  to  examine 
some  picture  or  piece  of  china  there,  and  thus  drifted 
to  the  shady  side  looking  towards  Table  Mountain. 
The  house  itself,  with  a  thatched  roof,  was  only  of  two 
storeys,  but  the  magnificent  trees  threw,  even  in  the 
early  afternoon,  a  broad  shadow  over  the  lawn,  and 
beyond  this,  with  Table  Mountain  completing  the  pic- 
ture, were  beds  of  gorgeous  flowers  in  the  sunshine: 
petunias,  blue  lilies,  hydrangeas,  and  pelargoniums. 

Rhodes  lurched  through  the  crowd  of  guests,  giving 
a  chair  here  and  there  to  the  ladies,  and  then  caught 
up  with  Harmon  on  the  shaded  lawn.  "  I  say,"  he 
exclaimed,  but  in  not  too  loud  a  voice,  "  I  like  that 
son-in-law  of  yours  who  wants  to  repeat  the  experi- 
ment— that  Veneering  chap,  I  mean.  And  as  to  your 
daughter,  she's  a  ripper.  If  the  one  that  is  dead  was 
as  good-looking  and  as  sensible,  I  don't  wonder  Veneer- 
ing wants  to  take  a  second  wife  from  the  same  bunch. 
.  .  .  But  I  like  the  chap  .  .  .  and  it's  a  rum  thing !  .  .  . 
Don't  often  meet  any  one  nowadays  I  like,  straight- 
away. .  .  .  However  .  .  .  about  this  botany  .  .  .  I'll 
do  all  I  can  to  help  him,  I  mean  along  the  line  of 
vegetable  medicines.  .  .  .  Idea  that  appeals  to  me, 
though  I  know  precious  little  about  it.  Of  course, 
Table  Mountain's  a  great  curiosity.  .  .  .  Famous  all 
the  world  over.  They  tell  me  some  of  the  things  you 
find  up  on  top  there  at  three  thousand  feet  you  don't 
find  anywhere  else  in  Africa — only  plants  like  'em  turn 
up  again  in  South-west  Australia." 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  Mervyn,"  said  Harmon.  "  I've 
known  him  since  he  was  a  little  boy,  two  or  three  years 
old.  I  can  imagine  he's  dying  to  get  this  marriage 
over — settled — and  go  up  Table  Mountain  and  explore 
the  flora.  ...  I  dare  say  after  I'm  gone  back  and 


364  THE  VENEERINGS 

they've  married,  they  could  get  a  house,  a  cottage,  up 
in  the  heights  and  live  there  a  bit?" 

"  Sure,"  said  Rhodes,  once  again  launched  in 
thoughts  that  made  him  silent.  Presently  he  said: 
"  I  must  be  off  to  Cape  Town  for  a  Cabinet  meeting, 
arid  other  things.  You'll  want  a  rest.  I've  enjoyed 
myself  to-day,  and  somehow — now — it  isn't  often  I'm 
able  to  say  that — since  I  became  Premier  here.  .  .  . 
That  chap  Reinhard.  .  .  .  He's  a  rare  ass,  don't  you 
think?  But  you've  scarcely  spoken  to  him.  But  his 
wife's  a  damned  good-looking  woman.  Only  I  shall 
be  glad  when  they're  gone  ...  back  to  Jo'burg.  She 
always  seems  to  be  on  the  verge  of  tears,  with  me.  / 
don't  know  why !  You  take  her  on  this  afternoon,  see 
what  you  make  of  her?  Now  I  shall  slope — through 
the  stables,  and  then  the  others)  won't  know  I'm  gone. 
You  can  tell  'em  all  in  good  time." 

The  next  day  Harmon  and  his  party  and  Mrs.  Rein- 
hard  drove  with  their  host  to  Houts  Bay  arid  had  lunch 
at  the  inn  there.  The  breakers  were  magnificent  to 
look  at,  as  the  beach,  with  no  protection,  faced  the 
South  Atlantic.  A  singularly  sunny,  caressing  after- 
noon followed;  and  back  at  Groote  Schuur  there  was 
a  sleepy  tea  with  little  talk:  just  contentment.  There 
was  to  be  a  dinner  that  Saturday  evening  to  much  the 
same  persons  as  had  come  to  the  Friday  lunch,  followed 
by  a  party  at  half -past  nine,  to  which  would  come 
people  living  round  about  Rondebosch  and  Newlands. 

At  the  dinner  Elizabeth  had  the  honour  of  going  in 
on  the  arm  of  the  Prime  Minister;  Harmon  took  in 
the  enigmatic  but  certainly  beautiful,  golden-haired 
Mrs.  Reinhard;  Mervyn  escorted  a  lady  Press-writer 
who  had  somehow  got  invited;  and  the  other  woman 
did  not  matter  enough  in  the  story  to  be  particularised. 
The  Richardsons  were  coming  to  the  party  afterwards, 
and  Mrs.  Richardson — some  one  said — was  going  to 
do  hands.  "  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Rhodes.  "  Oh,  she 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  365 

looks  at  your  hands,  both  your  hands,  and  tells  you 
about  your  disposition,  how  many  times  you've  been 
in  love,  or  are  going  to  be,  how  long  you're  going  to 
live,  and  as  much  else  as  there's  time  for."  "  Rub- 
bish !  "  said  the  Prime  Minister.  "  I  dare  say.  But 
I  don't  suppose  any  one  takes  her  seriously;  in  any 
case,  she's  a  pretty  woman,  and  says  rather  smart 
things." 

The  dinner  was  remarkable.  It  was  cooked  with  all 
the  skill  of  Paris,  on  an  exotic  basis  of  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  of  Eastern  vegetables  and  tropic  fruits,  with  a 
consoling  Anglo-Saxon  foundation  of  the  things  that 
really  mattered.  A  variety  of  rare  and  delicious  wines 
— three  of  them  grown  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the 
Table  Mountain  mass — was  served  with  the  courses. 

"  This  is  an  experience,"  said  Harmon,  after  the 
third  or  fourth  course.  "  Difficult  to  believe  I'm  seven 
thousand  miles  south  of  Paris,  in  this  beautiful  room. 
.  .  .  Electric  light  .  .  .  such  furniture  .  .  .  and  such 
food  .  .  .  thirty-three  years  since  I  was  here  before. 
...  I  don't  mean  in  Groote  Schuur,  but  in  Cape 
Town,  more  or  less.  .  .  .  Just  preparing  to  go ''home,' 
as  I  called  it,  to  claim  a  property.  I  stayed — I  imagine 
— at  some  dirty  inn  near  the  harbour,  and  had  wretch- 
edly cooked  food  .  .  .  tough  beef  .  .  .  waxy  pota- 
toes. Although  I  understood  I  was  going  to  be  rich, 
I  felt  in  low  spirits  when  I  left  Constantia !  I  wonder 
what  it'll  seem  like  when  I'm  there  on  Monday  or 
Tuesday  ?  " 

"I  was  born  on  a  farm  near  Worcester,  seventy 
miles  or  so  from  here,"  said  Mrs.  Reinhard;  "but  I 
suppose  I'm  only  half  your  age  .  .  .  from  what  you 
tell  me.  I  certainly  wasn't  in  existence  when  you  last 
saw  Cape  Town.  Still,  in  my  experience,  there  has 
been  a  great  change  and  expansion  in  South  African 
life.  The  diamonds  and  gold  may  have  done  some 
harm,  but  they  have  purchased  a  deal  of  comfort 


366  THE  VENEERINGS 

and  luxury.  .  .  .  You  are  going  far  up  country,  I 
hear?" 

"  As  far  as  the  railway  will  take  me,  to  Mafeking, 
perhaps  ...  to  see  my  eldest  son.  .  .  .  Then  I  must 
return  to  England." 

"  You  sound  a  little  sad  as  you  say  that." 

"  Do  I  ?  I'm  growing  old,  that's  one  reason ;  and 
then  I  shall  be  leaving  behind  two  people  I  am  very 
fond  of :  that  young  man  over  there,  and  my  daughter. 
.  .  .  They,  as  you  know,  are  going  to  get  married." 

"At  the  Cathedral,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I  am  taking  my  daughter  first 
to  see  her  brother,  who  is  in  the  Chartered  Company's 
pioneer  force.  I  expect  he  will  be  able  to  ride  down 
to  railhead,  or  Mafeking." 

"  I  see.  And  after  that  you  return  to  Cape  Town, 
and  then  your  daughter  marries  the  young  man  oppo- 
site—Mr. .  .  .  Mr. ?" 

"  Mr.  Veneering.  He  is  one  of  the  partners  in  my 
business  at  home." 

When  his  guests  had  apparently  eaten  all  the  dessert 
they  wanted,  Rhodes  raised  his  voice  and  said :  "  As 
I'm  expecting  some  friends  from  round  about  to  look 
us  up  this  evening,  I  think  we'll  adopt  the  foreign  plan 
— as  we  call  it — of  leaving  the  table  together." 

So  men  and  women  trooped  from  the  dining-room 
to  the  two  drawing-rooms,  where  already  some  of  the 
guests  for  the  evening  had  assembled.  Amongst  these 
were  the  Richardsons.  "  We  could  not  come  to  dine, 
though  Mr.  Rhodes  was  kind  enough  to  ask  us,  but 
here  we  are  to  spend  the  evening.  We  are  sleeping  at 
the  Staceleys's  house  hard-by;  in  fact,  we  have  come 
with  them.  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  have  the  courage 
to  ask  to  see  Mr.  Rhodes's  hand  to-night?  I  do  so 
want  to,  because  I  am  afraid  my  husband  and  I  will 
have  to  go  to  Natal  for  a  tour  of  inspection,  and 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  367 

Goodness  knows  where  the  Premier  will  be  when  we 
come  back.  Some  say  he  is  going  to  England  as  soon 
as  the  Legislature  rises." 

Thus  Mrs.  Richardson.  John  Harmon,  feeling 
bolder  than  most — he  liked  Rhodes,  and,  apart  from 
that,  did  not  care  if  he  was  snubbed — went  up  to  the 
great  man  with  Mrs.  Richardson — almost  visibly 
trembling — and  said :  "  This  little  lady  is  very  anxious 
to  look  at  your  hands — palmistry,  you  know!  She's 
very  discreet  and  very  much  afraid,  so  I  said  I'd  ask." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  Premier,  a  little  crossly. 
"  It's  fearful  rubbish,  but  if  it  gives  you  any  pleasure." 

They  retired  to  a  broad  ottoman  in  an  embrasure 
where  there  was  a  shaded  electric  light.  "  Can  I  do 
anything  more  ?  "  asked  Harmon.  "  Oh,  would  you, 
could  you  be  so  good  as  to  find  me  some  paper  and 
a  pencil  ?  "  "  You'll  see  as  much  as  she's  likely  to 
want  of  both  in  the  next  room,  the  library,"  growled 
Rhodes. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  approached  the  little  retreat. 
Rhodes  had  risen  and  was  striding  away,  not  looking 
particularly  amiable.  Mrs.  Richardson  was  poring 
over  her  pencil  notes.  "  Oh,  dear !  "  she  exclaimed, 
"  It  has  been  rather  an  unnerving  experiment !  I  hope 
I  haven't  made  him  angry.  I  didn't  venture  to  tell  him 
half  the  things  I  saw,  for — for — fear  it  might  make 
him  angry — and  my  husband,  of  course,  wants  to  get 
on  well  with  him.  So  I'm  afraid  I  seemed  to  him  very 
stupid,  and  he  thought  it  all  a  great  waste  of  time.  I 
suppose  you  know  he's  left-handed?  P'raps  he  didn't 
like  my  finding  that  out,  or  that  he  had  a  bent  finger 
on  his  right  hand.  But — but — these  are  some  of  the 
things  I  have  noted  regarding  the  future.  Of  course, 
I  know  he  was  born  somewhere  about  1853,  so  it's  easy 
to  guess  him  at  forty  years  of  age.  There's  some 
one  man  in  whom  he  believes  tremendously.  This  man 
pulls  off  a  considerable  success  very  soon,  just  about 


368  THE  VENEERINGS 

Rhodes's  present  age ;  but  a  few  years  later  his  affairs 
— his  or  Rhodes's — come  to  utter  smash.  Either  he 
or  Rhodes  goes  to  prison,  and  I  don't  think  Rhodes 
lives  to  be  over  fifty.  Yet,  to  a  great  extent  his  work 
picks  itself  up  and  is  ultimately  successful.  It  is  an 
extraordinary  hand  in  many  ways :  such  amazing  suc- 
cesses and  yet  such  disasters.  I'll  work  out  my  notes 
fully  to-morrow.  But  do  you  know,  I'm  rather  sorry 
I  went  as  far  as  I  did.  Don't  tell  any  one !  I  shan't 
tell  my  husband,  and  I  dare  say  Mr.  Rhodes  will  forget. 
He  must  be  getting  so  used  to  being  bothered  by  people 
like  me  that  I  don't  suppose  he  will  remember  me 
specially  spitefully." 

Harmon  tendered  what  calming  advice  he  could 
think  of,  and  it  was — fortunately  (he  thought) — cur- 
tailed by  the  strains  of  a  violin,  exquisitely  played. 
Other  music  of  an  orchestra  followed.  A  few  people 
danced  the  waltz  of  the  period — probably  a  slow  one. 
Rhodes  was  no  more  seen  by  any  one  that  evening. 

Neither  was  he  visible  to  his  guests  on  the  Sunday 
morning,  but  he  put  in  an  appearance  at  lunch  time, 
a  little  abstracted  in  thought  and  silent.  When  he  did 
speak  it  was  on  the  subject  of  medicine  plants.  He 
had  been  greatly  taken  with  the  idea  that  valuable  drugs 
might  be  discovered  in  South  Africa,  and  directed  most 
of  his  talk  to  Mervyn  and  Harmon.  All  three  agreed 
that  the  best  area  for  examination  would  be  Table 
Mountain  and  the  analogous  ranges  of  old  sandstone 
formation  in  the  south  and  south-west  of  Cape  Colony. 
When  that  had  been  done,  a  glance  at  Basutoland — 
though  it  was  rumoured  to  be  very  disappointing  in 
plants,  even  if  Alpine  in  height — and  to  finish  up  with, 
botanical  collecting  in  the  mountains  of  Mashonaland. 
There  were  reported  to  be  heights  of  eight  thousand 
feet  and  more  in  that  direction.  Perhaps  on  the  way 
thither  or  thence  Mervyn  might  be  able  to  turn  aside 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  369 

to  verify  Theodore   Bent's   amazing  discoveries   of 
Phoenician  or  Arab  ruins  at  Zimbabwe. 

Such  conversations  as  these,  Harmon  was  living 
through  again  a  few  days  later,  when  he  and  Elizabeth 
were  travelling  north-eastward  in  a  luxurious  first- 
class  compartment,  pounding  on  through  the  interior  of 
Cape  Colony  towards  Kimberley.  They  had  spent  a 
long  day  at  Constantia,  where  the  vineyards  were  now 
under  Government  management.  No  trace  remained 
of  the  de  Vries  establishment.  The  "  old  man  "  had 
died  twenty  years  ago  .  .  .  more  than  that ;  his  widow 
had  survived  till  1880.  The  rest  of  the  family  had 
moved  eastward.  .  .  .  Worcester. 

Then  there  had  been  a  return  to  the  Cape  Town 
hotel  and  a  parting  with  Mervyn ;  who,  as  soon  as  all 
the  marriage  arrangements  were  settled  against  their 
coming  back,  was  to  begin  exploring  Table  Mountain, 
partly  with  a  view  to  finding  a  house  to  live  in,  not 
too  far  from  the  summit. 

So  they  had  at  last  finished  a  crowded  week,  and 
Rhodes  had  retained  a  compartment  for  them  in  the 
great  express  which,  in  those  days,  ran  three  times  a 
week  to  the  verge  of  the  Bechuanaland  Protectorate, 
where — also  in  those  days — the  Chartered  Company's 
operations  commenced. 

A  night's  journey  finished  the  really  striking  scenery 
of  the  coast  ranges.  Thenceforth,  for  as  far  as  the 
railway  might  be  constructed,  there  would  be  little 
worth  looking  at  from  the  compartment  windows  in 
the  way  of  scenery.  The  landscapes  might  be  vast, 
but  Elizabeth  thought  them  pitifully  vacuous.  A  few 
blobs  of  low  trees,  a  low,  even  ridge  against  the  north- 
ern sky  of  some  undistinguished  plateau;  corrugated 
iron  buildings  near  the  line;  once,  in  a  way,  a  corru- 
gated iron  church  or  school. 


370  THE  VENEERINGS 

A  long  wait  at  Kimberley  was  enlivened  by  an  ample 
meal  at  the  railway  restaurant  and  a  walk  out  of  the 
station  to  the  undistinguished,  low-built,  corrugated 
iron  town,  besprinkled  with  young  trees.  Another  wait 
at  Taungs.  And  at  Vryburg — as  it  was  by  that  time 
spelt,  "Vrijburg"  looking  too  "Dutch" — the  train 
journey  came  officially  to  an  end. 

But  they  had  been  preceded  here  by  telegrams  from 
Cape  Town,  and  were  met  by  representatives  both  of 
the  Colonial  Government  and  of  the  company.  It  was 
thought  possible,  though  the  line  to  Mafeking  was  not 
yet  open  to  the  public,  to  send  them  thither  in  a  service 
train  the  next  day.  Every  one  was  so  kind,  the  air  at 
this  height  of  nearly  four  thousand  feet  was  so  ex- 
hilarating they  were  disposed  to  make  the  best  of 
everything.  They  took  up  their  abode  at  the  railway 
hotel,  mainly  constructed  of  corrugated  iron  .  .  . 
though  the  kitchen  portion  was  of  bashful,  blushing 
brick.  "  How  I  love  bricks,"  said  Elizabeth  to  her 
father ;  "  I  never  thought  I  could  so  hate  corrugated  iron 
or  feel  such  a  delight  in  bricks  and  mortar.  Of  course, 
when  there  is  nothing  else  available,  I  understand  the 
poor  things  using  these  sheets  of  galvanised  iron;  but 
why  make  it  twice  as  ugly  with  these  corrugations?  " 

So  ...  at  last  .  .  .  they  had  reached  Mafeking. 
Seven  years  later  it  would  have  become  a  place  of 
world-wide  fame;  but  at  the  end  of  February,  1893, 
it  was  only  known  to  missionaries  as  the  former 
"  capital  "  of  the  Barolong  tribe,  and  to  Cape  politicians 
as  the  centre  of  a  hazy  administration  of  British  Bechu- 
analand.  Some  twenty  miles  to  the  north,  across  a 
little  river,  began  the  still  vaguer  Bechuanaland  Pro- 
tectorate, which  would  shortly  come  under  the  control 
of  the  Chartered  Company. 

A  week's  delay  was  passed  in  this  place  by  means  of 
long  rides  on  lent  horses,  in  absolutely  perfect  weather. 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  371 

The  Administrator  gave  them  hospitality.  They  in- 
vestigated the  native  kraals,  the  mission  schools,  the 
railway  works.  One  day,  at  the  half-finished  railway 
station,  John  Harmon  was  watching  repairs  to  a  pilot 
engine,  when  a  tall,  bearded  young  man — sun-helmet, 
gaiters,  cords,  red  shirt — looked  him  in  the  face  and 
said,  "Father?" 

It  was  Reggie,  not  seen  by  his  parent  since  the 
December  of  1890,  when  he  had  been  home  for  a  very 
short  holiday.  "  I'm  commandant,  just  now,  at  Fort 
Tuli,  fortunately.  .  .  .  Might  otherwise  have  been  a 
month's  ride  farther  off.  I  got  your  January  letter, 
so  I  wasn't  surprised  at  the  telegram ;  and  the  morrow 
after  getting  tliat  I  had  my  leave  and  started  off  and 
have  ridden  like  hell,  day  after  day,  to  be  here  in  time. 
.  .  .  Are  you  alone  ?  " 

"  Dear  me !  This  is  delightful !  How  well  and 
strong  you  look!  Alone?  Why,  no.  I've  got  dear 
Elizabeth  with  me." 

"  Elizabeth  ?  You  mean  Lizzie  ?  However,  it's  the 
same  thing.  Then  mother  stayed  at  home  ?  And  where 
is  the  widower?  " 

"  Mervyn  ?     He's  at  Cape  Town." 

"  That's  all  right.  Now  let's  find  Lizzie.  ...  I 
say,  Dad,  they  aren't  surely  going  to  get  married  ?  " 

"They  are." 

"  But  it's  against  the  law !  " 

"  Not  now,  not  in  Cape  Colony.  They've  come  out 
here  to  get  married,  and  will  be  married  presently  at 
Cape  Town;  after  which  I  shall  betake  myself  home 
again,  and  Mervyn  and  Lizzie  will  stay  out  here  for  a 
bit.  Mervyn  wants  to  study  the  Cape  flora  for  the 
usual  purposes,  medicine  plants.  ..."  John  Har- 
mon paused.  They  were  walking  away  from  the 
station  in  the  direction  of  the  white  man's  town.  He 
placed  a  hand  on  his  son's  right  arm.  "  Reggie,  old 
man.  Let's  bury  here — before  we  find  Elizabeth — 


372  THE  VENEERINGS 

this  foolish  old  quarrel — one-sided  quarrel,  on  your 
side  only.  You  may  have  thought,  years  ago,  I  showed 
undue  favour  to  a  youth  who  was  no  relation  of  ours, 
but  whose  father  had  virtually  created  this  drug  busi- 
ness. I  might  have  taken  much  less  interest  in  him 
if  either  you  or  John  or  both  of  you  had  thrown 
yourselves  into  this  hunt  for  drugs  and  medicines. 
But  you  didn't.  Let's  hope  the  things  you  have  taken 
up — yours  promises  splendidly — will  turn  out  bril- 
liantly. But  be  a  sportsman !  Don't  crab  my  ventures 
in  which  Mervyn  has  helped — ah !  you  little  know  how 
much.  Hettie's  death  was  a  ghastly  blow  to  him. 
Now,  three  years  afterwards,  he  wants  to  marry  her 
sister,  your  sister,  Elizabeth.  The  idiotic  bishops  at 
home  say  he  shan't — you  know  their  utterly  unreason- 
able arguments.  .  .  .  Well,  here,  the  more  enlightened 
public  opinion  says  '  You  may.'  Put  this  foolish,  old, 
boyish  jealousy  out  of  your  mind,  come  down  to  the 
Cape  and  see  him  married!  More  than  that:  see  if 
you  can't  get  a  few  months'  leave,  three  months'  leave  ? 
I  hear  from  Rhodes  big  things  may  be  taking  place 
hereabouts  in  the  late  summer.  Come  and  see  Rhodes 
in  Cape  Town.  .  .  .  We've  been  staying  with  him. 
.  .  .  See  Mer  and  Lizzie  married,  and  then  see  me 
home !  It  would  delight  your  dear  mother,  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world.  Have  a  quiet  month  with 
us  at  home;  then,  if  you  still  want  to  finish  your  job 
out  here,  return  and  carry  it  through  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Reggie.  He  looked  his  father  in 
the  face  and  saw  his  eyes  full  of  tears.  He  stretched 
out  a  very  sunburnt  hand  and  wrung  the  hand  his 
father  extended.  Then  they  went  to  meet  Elizabeth, 
who  was  almost  running  towards  them. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

MERVYN    AND    REGGIE 

Trelawney  Villa, 
Table  Mountain, 
Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

June  i,  1893. 

MY  DEAR  FATHER, 
Here  we  are,  installed  at  last,  on  Table  Moun- 
tain. The  house  has  a  ridiculous  name,  but  it  seems 
to  be  well  known,  and  as  it  is  only  a  temporary  instal- 
lation I  doubt  if  it  would  be  wise  to  change  it.  Appa- 
rently it  was  built  about  1850  by  some  eccentric  official 
in  Cape  Town.  It  is  flat-roofed  (a  feature  we  much 
enjoy)  and  has  a  largish  walled  garden,  and  water  is 
laid  on  from  a  delicious  little  spring  hard  by  which 
afterwards  develops  into  a  tiny  rivulet  and  feeds  the 
new  reservoir  nearly  two  miles  to  the  south.  I  liked 
the  exterior  of  the  house  directly  I  saw  it,  and  its 
position  for  collecting  is  superb.  But  the  interior  was 
a  horror.  It  had  not  been  properly  inhabited  for  five 
or  six  years.  However,  Lizz  and  I  were  bursting  with 
energy,  and  through  Rhodes's  backing  we  got  a  non- 
descript band  of  workmen — a  mixture  of  all  the 
world's  races,  they  seemed.  But  they  were  good- 
natured  and  cheery,  and  two  months'  steady  work 
ended  by  making  the  villa  clean,  comfortable,  and 
adapted  to  my  studies.  Lizz  is  delighted  with  it.  We 
have  three  spare  rooms  besides  our  own  two  bedrooms, 

373 


374  THE  VENEERINGS 

so  there  is  space  for  a  family  if  we  start  one  during 
our  sojourn  or  if  any  of  you  bring  out  our  Hetty. 
But,  of  course,  we  both  feel  in  our  inmost  souls  a 
determination  to  get  back  to  you  all,  as  soon  as  our 
tiny  circle  has  got  used  to  our  marriage. 

Reggie  landed  at  Cape  Town  about  a  week  ago,  and 
must  now  be  somewhere  beyond  Mafeking  on  his  way 
back  to  Mashonaland.  There  is  a  whisper  about 
Groote  Schuur  and  Cape  Town  that  Jameson  means 
trying  conclusions  with  the  Matabele  *  this  summer 
or  autumn ;  and  so  Reggie  only  spent  one  night  at  our 
place  and  started  next  day  for  Mafeking  and  Tuli. 
He  looked  awfully  well,  and  it  is  a  source  of  intense 
satisfaction  to  Lizz  and  me  that  we  are  friends  again. 
I  pressed  on  him  the  importance — with  the  means  at 
his  command — of  settling  down  himself  to  something 
more  definite  than  a  roving  African  life.  He,  how- 
ever, believes  with  Jameson  and  Rhodes  that  the  high- 
lands of  Matabele-  and  Mashona-land  are  immensely 
rich  in  gold.  Otherwise,  why  did  they  attract  these 
prehistoric  invaders?  There  are  traces  of  their  work- 
ings, very  methodical  workings,  all  over  the  country 
between  the  Limpopo  and  the  Zambezi,  he  says.  Of 
course  they  did  little  more  than  take  away  the  surface 
gold.  I  don't  suppose  they  burrowed  very  deep. 
Modern  machinery,  he  thinks,  will  draw  huge  fortunes 
for  thousands  of  men  out  of  Mashonaland  and  Manika- 
land,  hard  by.  He  himself  wants  to  make  fifteen 
thousand  pounds,  says  he'd  be  content  with  fifteen,  if 
it  came  quickly.  Then  he'll  come  home,  settle  down, 
marry,  and  go  in  for  Parliament. 

I  hope  all  this  may  come  true.  Personally  I  think 
he's  much  improved  by  these  years  on  the  veld. 

I've   rambled  with  Lizz — (Elizabeth   is   the  more 

*  Mervyn  at  this  stage  did  not  know  the  right  spelling  of  Araan- 
debele  or  of  its  Tebele  root  word. — AUTHOR. 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  375 

stately  name,  I  admit,  but  it  is  too  long  for  home  use 
and  home-circle  letters.  How  did  the  ancients  man- 
age about  their  names  ?  They  may  have  written  very 
little,  but  they  must  have  talked  as  much  as  we  do. 
Did  the  friends  of  Aristoboulos  call  him  "  Stob  "  in 
private?) — I've  rambled  with  Lizz  all  over  Table 
Mountain  and  the  neighbouring  heights,  but  of  course 
the  best  season  for  flower  displays  is  from  November 
to  March.  February-June  is  the  time  for  seeds,  and 
seeds  and  roots  are  vastly  more  interesting  from  our 
point  of  view.  So,  on  the  whole,  this  has  been  the 
right  time  for  me,  though  I  have  not  been  able  to  iden- 
tify all  my  specimens.  I  recommend  your  looking 
into  the  two  kinds  of  Anacampseros  and  the  roots  of 
Mesembrythanthemum  edule.  I  want  to  have  the 
Buphane  bulbs  (enormous  in  size)  locally  examined 
and  tested,  as  they  are  really  too  large  to  send  to  you. 
They  produce  the  virulent  poison  of  the  Bushmen's 
arrows.  What  is  poison  when  too  strong,  is  often  a 
valuable  drug  when  much  diluted.  I  hear  from  Reggie 
that  there  are  several  kinds  of  Strophanthus  up  in 
Mashonaland,  especially  round  those  amazing  ruins  of 
Phoenician  or  ancient'  Arab  towns.  I  remember 
vividly  first  hearing  of  Strophanthus  some  thirteen 
years  ago,  when  I  was  working  at  the  Mincing  Lane 
office  with  Mr.  Wilfer,  and  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Ven- 
ables — still  acting,  I  suppose? — came  in  and  nibbled 
some  and  was  borne  out  swooning!  I  feel  quite 
tenderly  towards  the  genus  in  consequence.  It  does 
not  seem  to  be  found  in  southernmost  Africa.  Reggie, 
by  the  bye,  says  there  are  mountains  of  over  8,000  feet 
in  Mashonaland !  I  must  go  there ! 


Your  affectionate  son, 

MERVYN. 


376  THE  VENEERINGS 

From  Madison  Corness. 

?8,  Mincing  Lane, 
E.  C. 
December  24,  1893. 

DEAR  OLD  MERVYN, 

I  am  almost  alone  in  the  office,  except  for  old 
Slopey.  We  are  closing  up  for  the  Christmas  holidays 
— three  days — and  I,  personally,  am  going  to  be  absent 
— as  usual — at  Chacely  till  New  Year's  Day.  Helen  is 
down  there  already  with  her  two  babies.  She  has 
grown  quite  strong  again,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  and 
the  second  child  promises  to  be  as  great  a  beauty  as 
the  first.  I  can't  help  thinking  father's  medicines — we 
all  call  him  "  father,"  and  all  think  of  our  drugs  as 
"  his,"  though  you  may  have  invented  a  third  and  I,  or 
my  people  in  the  States,  have  discovered  a  fourth  of 
them — well,  I  was  going  to  say  I  can't  help  thinking 
father's  medicines  have  had  a  lot  to  do  with  improving 
the  conditions  of  parturition  ever  since  he  threw  him- 
self into  the  investigation  of  puerperal  fever  after 
Hetty's  death.  So  in  case  you  should  have  hopes  in 
regard  to  Elizabeth  I  do  trust  you  will  have  seen  to  it 
that  you  are  thoroughly  well  supplied  with  all  the 
drugs  we  could  send  you?  Of  course  a  perfectly 
healthy  person  needs  no  drugs.  But  how  many  among 
us — us,  vocal,  reasoning,  important  people — at  the  end 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  are  perfectly  healthy?  We 
are  for  ever  running  risks. 

By  the  bye,  I  wonder  if  you  heard  anything  from  or 
of  Miriam  Cochrane?  Did  you  know  she  is  another 
Sarai?  She  actually  had  a  baby  last  October!  You 
must  have  heard  that,  or  seen  it  in  the  papers.  ...  It 
was  a  little  girl,  so  not  quite  a  repetition  of  the  Isaac 
legend.  .  .  .  Victor  was  more  excited  about  it  than 
she  was,  I  think.  He  telegraphed  for  about  half  a 
dozen  accoucheurs  and  a  like  number  of  nurses;  and 
became  tremendously  joyful  when — after  a  very  bad 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  377 

time  (they  say) — she  began  to  recover.  I  expect  you 
saw  the  notices  about  it  which  he  put  into  the  papers, 
and  which  she  must  have  ground  her  teeth  over,  when 
she  read  them.  He  cannot  resist  advertising  and 
thought  it  might  help  his  candidature.  They  are  fuss- 
ing so  much  now  about  the  child  that  I  expect  they 
won't  come  to  Chacely  for  Christmas.  Mother — Mrs. 
Harmon — is  going  there  later  on  to  give  advice. 

We  received,  last  October,  your  large  consignment 
of  specimens.  I  expect  the  report  almost  daily  and 
will  despatch  it  immediately.  I  understand  from 
mother  there  are  hopes  of  a  definite  nature  in  regard  to 
your  wife  and  that  you  are  proposing  to  remain  at 
Trelawney  Villa  till  the  business  is  well  over — say  till 
next  March  or  April. 

People  here  at  home  seem  to  have  taken  Rhodes's 
business  very  well.  There  is  a  little  snarling  in  the 
Radical  Press — very  little,  however.  We  were  rather 
shocked  to  learn  of  the  death  of  Major  Forbes  and 
thirty-five  men  round  about  Lobengula's  camp — cut  off 
by  the  rise  of  some  river.  But  perhaps  the  story  has 
been  exaggerated.  Reggie  seems  to  have  done  awfully 
well  out  of  the  whole  business,  and  has  been  specially 
mentioned  in  several  reports. 

That  wonderful  old  woman,  Mme.  de  Lamelle — her 
age  must  be  well  over  seventy;  father  says  she  wasn't 
far  off  forty  when  he  first  saw  her  in  1861 — is  still  to 
the  fore.  She  and  Georgy  make  stately  progresses  up 
and  down  the  French  approach  to  the  Pyrenees,  look- 
ing in  at  Gaston's  plantations  to  see  how  they  are  get- 
ting on,  and  not  staying  long  enough  to  irritate  the 
French  gardeners. 

I  suppose  you  hear  regularly  from  Jeanne?  And 
realise  they  have  six  children  now,  with  the  boy  that 
was  born  last  July?  Gaston  says  it's  a  lesson  to  his 
nation — six  healthy  children,  three  boys  and  three  girls. 
And  he  has  also  by  now  six  magnificent  drug  planta- 


378  THE  VENEERINGS 

tions,  four  in  or  near  the  Gave  d'Aspe  and  two  in  the 
Eastern  Pyrenees,  near  Prades. 

But  his  hair  has  gone  grey  and  thin  in  the  process. 
France  is  taking  colonisation  very  seriously  and  is 
making  huge  demands  on  Gaston's  firm  for  drugs  for 
West  Africa  and  the  Congo.  The  growing  trouble  in 
tropical  Africa  is  this  blackwater  fever — Haemoglobi- 
nuria.  I  hear  there  are  cases  of  it  as  far  south  as 
Delagoa  Bay;  so  it  may  come  under  your  notice.  It 
has  broken  out  very  badly  in  Madagascar.  France  is 
in  for  a  lot  of  trouble  in  that  direction,  I  fear,  and  is 
piling  up  all  the  elements  of  civil  and  religious  war  at 
home.  .  .  . 

Well,  dear  old  chap,  here  are  hopes  of  the  very  best 
for  your  happy  future,  and  that  of  Elizabeth,  from 
Helen  and  me.  I  told  her  I  would  include  her  name 
when  I  wrote  to  you.  As  soon  as  she  has  settled  her 
babies'  demands  for  accommodation  at  Chacely  she 
will  write  to  her  sister.  .  .  .  Come  home  soon,  but 
before  you  come  find  out  all  about  Strophanthus  in 
South  Africa.  Johnston  has  sent  us  three  kinds  from 
Nyasaland.  .  .  . 

Your  affectionate  brother-in-law, 

MADISON. 

In  the  spring  of  1894,  Elizabeth  had  her  first  baby  at 
the  much-attended  to,  renovated,  cleaned,  and  flowery 
Trelawney  Villa.  Mervyn  had  little  thought  of  any- 
thing but  of  her  for  a  month  beforehand  and  a  month 
afterwards.  But  when  the  boy-baby  had  been  chris- 
tened, and  all  the  necessary  correspondence  about  it 
had  taken  place,  and  Elizabeth  had  regained  her  beauty 
and  vigour,  he  fretted  very  much  at  the  loss  of  her 
companionship.  "  Darling,"  she  said,  resting  her 
rounded  cheek  on  the  sleeve  of  his  Norfolk  jacket,  "  I 
wish  I  could  divide  into  two.  But  what  am  I  to  do, 
and  why  isn't  this  situation  taken  into  account  in  nov- 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  379 

els?  Novel  writers  concern  themselves  so  little  about 
the  rearing  of  babies,  as  though  infants,  directly  they 
were  born,  had  teeth  and  could  eat  chops  and  tomato 
sauce.  There  is  no  one  out  here  I  could  get  in  as  a 
wet-nurse.  Besides,  nowadays,  we  spurn  wet-nurses. 
You  know  if  you  were  considering  any  case  but  ours, 
you  would  say  it  was  preposterous  to  bring  up  our 
child  on  a  black  woman's  or  a  brown  woman's,  or  any 
other  woman's  milk.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it 
is  unnatural.  And  then  these  artificial  milk  prepara- 
tions— well,  of  course  they're  better  than  nothing,  and 
if  the  mother  really  can't  nurse  the  child,  they  have  to 
be  resorted  to.  But  they  can't  be  so  good  as  the  natural 
means — at  any  rate  for  the  first  six  months." 

So  Mervyn  devoted  himself,  with  an  occasional  sigh 
of  regret,  during  the  dry  season — their  spring — of 
1894  to  the  nearly  inexhaustible  botanical  wonders 
and  drug  plants  of  Table  Mountain,  of  the  Devil's 
Peak,  and  of  Constantia  Peak;  and  to  first  short  and 
then  long  excursions  to  the  mountain  ranges  of  the 
north  and  east;  to  the  Lange  Bergen,  the  Outenikwa 
mountains,  and  the  Groote  Zwarte  Bergen.  He  bought 
a  Cape  cart  with  a  waterproof  cover,  enlisted  two 
travelling  servants — Cape  boys — and  where  the  rail- 
ways could  not  take  him  he  drove,  if  any  possible  road 
existed,  northwards  to  Clanwilliam,  and  eastwards  as 
far  as  Port  Elizabeth.  All  the  mountain  ranges  here, 
in  this  southernmost  part  of  Africa,  were  of  Lower 
Devonian  sandstone,  like  Table  Mountain — and  pos- 
sessed a  marvellous  flora  and  many  remarkable  drug- 
yielding  plants  and  trees.  Botanically,  this  was  South 
Africa's  wonderland,  the  Australian  and  South  Ameri- 
can relationships  of  its  plants  arousing  spectacled  bot- 
anists to  frenzy,  so  that  Mervyn's  discoveries  caused  a 
hissing  and  a  clamour  far  off  at  Kew  and  Cambridge, 
at  the  Sorbonne,  at  Leyden,  Berlin,  and  Bonn.  Quan- 
tities of  seeds  and  bulbs  were  sent  to  Gaston  to  plant  in 


380  THE  VENEERINGS 

the  Pyrenees,  and  a  secondary  collection  went  to  Cor- 
ness  and  Crabtree  in  New  York,  to  see  what  could  be 
done  with  them  in  suitable  American  grounds. 

In  March,  1895,  Elizabeth  thought  she  might 
occasionally  leave  her  child — the  beloved  Cecil  Hamil- 
ton Veneering — for  a  day  and  a  night  and  another  day 
to  the  care  of  an  excellent  nurse,  the  widow  of  an 
English  soldier;  so  she  and  Mervyn  had  some  delight- 
ful rambles  together  in  the  mountains  of  the  south.  In 
the  autumn,  however,  it  was  evident  she  was  going  to 
have  another  child.  Therefore  Mervyn  had  ingenious 
things  done  by  carpenters  in  his  Cape  cart,  so  that  it, 
or  much  of  it,  took  to  pieces  and  was  transportable 
in  railway  vans.  Thus  the  cart  and  three  mules  were 
conveyed  (by  the  ever-extending  railway  that  Rhodes 
was  urging  northwards)  to  Mafeking;  and  after  a 
halt  here  and  a  halt  there  the  tropics  were  reached,  and 
a  visit  was  paid  to  Southern  Mashonaland,  to  the 
region  of  the  mysterious  stone  cities — Zimbabwe  and 
the  like. 

Mervyn  was  not  learned  as  an  archaeologist;  he 
formed  his  impressions,  perhaps,  too  readily  and  all- 
roundedly.  But  he  became  quickly  convinced  that, 
whatever  might  be  said  of  the  heaps  and  circles  of 
rough,  untrimmed  stones  to  be  met  with  in  the  country 
of  the  Matabele  (once  part  of  this  same  Monomotapa 
Empire  and  only  conquered  early  in  the  nineteenth 
century  by  the  Zulus),  or  of  the  gold-mining  there  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  Zimbabwe,  and  most  of  the  ruins  like 
it,  were  never  built  by  Bantu  negroes.  And  they  were 
before  the  age  of  Islam,  even  though  Muhammadan 
Arabs  had  carried  their  trade  thither  in  succession  to 
their  pre-Islamic  forefathers. 

But  of  course,  though  archaeology  was  a  fascinating 
side-issue  and  a  thrilling  cause  of  quarrel,  the  main 
purpose  of  his  journey  across  the  southern  tropic  was 
a  search  for  vegetable  drugs,  and  he  was  enthusiastic 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  381 

over  his  discovery  of  a  new  Strophanthus  of  great 
potency  and  a  local  variety  of  the  Castor  oil  plant,  as 
well  as  of  certain  Indian  and  Persian  drug-plants, 
which  had  quite  possibly  been  brought  into  South-east 

Africa  by  the  builders  of  Zimbabwe. 

***** 

When  Mervyn  left  Zimbabwe  a  fortnight  before 
Christmas,  1895,  ne  was  dimly  aware  that  great  doings 
were  pending  in  Bechuanaland  and  the  Western  Trans- 
vaal. Reggie  Harmon  was  not  at  Fort  Tuli  as  he 
passed  through.  "Still  at  Pitsane,  I  suppose?"  he 
had  said  half  questioningly  to  the  sergeant-major  in 
command,  a  grizzled  veteran  of  two  or  three  Colonial 
wars.  "  Couldn't  say,  sir,  I  am  sure.  Instructions  was 
'  No  letters  to  be  forwarded  at  present.'  ' 

Day  after  day  he  drove  in  his  covered  Cape  cart 
along  the  rough  track  called  a  road  which  ran  through 
Palapye  close  to  the  half -made  railway  line.  Then  he 
crossed  the  railway  to  Shoshong  and  passed  to  Mole- 
polole  and  Gaberones,  and  so  on,  back  to  the  finished 
and  functioning  line  at  Pitsane  Pothlogo.  He  reached 
this  place  on  December  30,  to  find  it  in  a  state  of  mys- 
tery, a  state  of  siege.  All  telegraphic  communications 
with  the  south  and  east  were  cut  off.  Fortunately  he 
was  known  to  several  persons  who  remained  in  author- 
ity over  the  place.  One  of  them  said  to  him:  "  Old 
man!  Dr.  Jim's  taken  the  plunge,  and  your  friend 
Captain  Harmon's  gone  with  him " 

"Where?" 

"  Where  should  they  go  ?  To  Johannesburg,  some 
say;  to  Pretoria,  others.  My  own  belief  is  that  Dr. 
Jim's  makin'  for  Pretoria,  straight  away.  He'll  take 
the  Boers  absolutely  by  surprise  and  collar  the  arsenal. 
Then  Johannesburg  will  join  him." 

"I'm  not  so  absolutely  amazed  as  you  might  think. 
I  guessed  there  was  something  of  the  kind  in  prepara- 
tion. But — but — will  it  succeed  ?  " 


382  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  With  most  other  people  I'd  say  '  yes  ' ;  but  to  you 
— well — I  don't  know.  He's  got  barely  five  hundred 
men  with  him — white  men — and  about  two  thousand 
natives.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  mind  speakin'  out  to  you, 
knowin'  who  you  are,  and  it's  about  over  now,  one  way 
or  another,  and  you  couldn't  telegraph  if  you  wanted 
to.  We  cut  off  all  communications  two  days  ago.  .  .  . 
But  his  five  hundred — or  four  hundred  and  eighty — or 
ninety — whatever  it  is — are  picked  men,  great  riders, 
good  shots ;  and  Dr.  Jim's  a  gem.  It's  a  beastly  word 
to  say,  but  I  think  I'm  up  to  it,  for  I'm  dead  sober  while 
this  tension  lasts.  .  .  .  Dr.  Jim's  a  stra-te-^i-shan. 
There !  Got  it  right !  Well,  he  is.  About  four  thou- 
sand picked  fighters,  mainly  English,  under  Franky 
Rhodes,  ought  to  join  him  from  Jo'burg.  .  .  .  And 
what  are  you  going  to  do,  'cos  I've  fifty  things  I  must 
see  to ?" 

"  I  know.  I  quite  understand.  I  ought  to  think 
things  over  for  an  hour  or  so,  before  I  decide.  I  sup- 
pose the  road  to  the  south — to  Cape  territory — is  closed 
for  the  moment  ?  " 

"  Absolutely,  till  we  get  news — and  orders " 

"  Should  you  try  and  stop  me  if  I  drove  eastwards — 
after  them  ?  " 

"  I  should,  if  I  knew  positively  you  were  goin'  there 
— but  need  I  know  ?  I've  got  a  lot,  a  devil  of  a  lot  to 
do — I  can't  watch  you  to  see  where  you're  goin'.  I 
only  know  you  won't  get  to  Mafeking.  There's  no 
great  choice  of  roads,  but  if  you  turn  your  Cape  cart 
eastwards  in  Dr.  Jimmy's  tracks,  and  I  don't  know  for 
certain  you're  doin'  so,  you  might  get  through  and  see 
the  fun ;  or  you  might  get  shot  by  either  side ;  or  more 
likely  have  your  bloody  buggy  taken  from  you  for  an 
ambulance  and  have  to  walk  home.  This  much  is  clear, 
you  can't  go  south  and  you  can't  go  west — in  order  to 
go  south  some  other  way.  You  can  go  the  northern 
road;  and  if  you  go  eastwards  into  the  Transvaal 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  383 

you'll  either  fall  in  with  our  people,  whom  you 
know " 

Mervyn:  "  I  should  think  so !  Why,  one  of  them's 
my  brother-in-law !  " 

Interlocutor:  "...  whom  you  know,  or  else  with 
the  Boers.  Well,  you're  a  grown  man,  and  I  believe 
rather  a  big  pot  in  some  scientific  direction.  ...  So 
long!  Ta,  ta!" 

Mervyn  and  his  native  servants  took  the  mules  out  of 
the  cart  and  saw  them  tethered  where  they  could  rest, 
roll,  and  feed.  His  servants  prepared  a  mid-day  meal 
which  he  ate — thankful,  meantime,  for  the  extraor- 
dinary quiet  which  hung  over  Pitsane  Pothlogo.  It 
was  very  hot,  the  southern  mid-summer.  Towards  five, 
after  a  cup  of  tea,  they  harnessed  the  mules  and  drove 
eastward  along  the  very  obvious,  very  dusty,  broad, 
and  bestrewn  track  which  Dr.  Jim's  little  army  of 
mounted  men  had  made  a  day  and  a  half  earlier.  Fol- 
lowing this  force  of  five  hundred  men,  more  or  less, 
and  not  hanging  far  behind,  there  had  been  an  irregular 
band  of  two  thousand  negro  and  negroid  servants, 
"  boys,"  clerks,  and  what-not  else ;  so  that  this  route 
into  the  Transvaal  along  the  Witwatersrand  had  been 
traversed  by  a  small  army. 

There  was  a  moon,  nearly  full;  therefore  Mervyn 
drove  on  after  sunset,  through  the  open  country,  along 
the  dusty  road.  Owing  to  the  looseness  of  the  soil  on 
the  pounded  road,  his  mules  did  barely  six  miles  an 
hour.  At  ten  o'clock  at  night,  he  stopped  at  a  camping 
place  near  Ottoshoop  where  the  road  crossed  a  small 
stream — the  Mariko — not  far  from  its  source.  This 
had  evidently  been  a  halting  place  for  the  expedition  on 
its  first  day;  probably  for  a  mid-day  meal.  It  was 
from  various  indications  just  inside  Transvaal  terri- 
tory. His  Cape  boy  coachman  fastened  the  mules  to 
an  acacia  tree-trunk  a  little  distance  off  the  track.  For 


384  THE  VENEERINGS 

form's  sake  the  other  servant,  normally  a  cook,  was 
told  off  to  remain  awake  and  watch  whilst  Mervyn  and 
the  coachman  slept.  Whether  he  did  so  or  not  mat- 
tered little,  for  the  other  two  slept  very  lightly.  The 
night  was  singularly  silent;  only  distant  barkings  of 
dogs  at  Ottoshoop  could  be  heard.  Not  a  sound  from 
the  great,  trampled,  dusty  track.  A  glorious  dawn  at 
half-past  four,  and  by  daylight — five — they  were  on 
the  road  again  which  the  little  army  had  followed.  A 
few  large  and  repulsive  bare-necked  griffon  vultures 
rose  with  hops  and  flaps  before  their  advance,  and 
flew  eastward  ahead  of  them. 

By  noon  on  the  next  day  they  were  at  a  gorge  in  the 
Witwatersrand  heights  where  a  stream,  shrunken  and 
shallow  so  near  its  source,  broke  through  the  hills  on 
a  northward  course.  Here  they  came  suddenly  on  a 
great  assemblage  of  people,  mainly  black-skinned  and 
brown,  with  five  or  six  white  Rhodesian  police  in  con- 
trol, put  in  that  position  from  the  forward-moving 
band  because  they  were  sick  or  injured. 

"  Sorry,  sir,"  said  one  of  these,  who  recognised 
Mervyn  instinctively  as  a  "  gentleman,"  and  took  him 
for  some  belated  surgeon ;  "  Dr.  Jim's  orders  were  that 
no  one  was  to  pass  further  along  this  road  till  he  sent 
word." 

"  All  right.  I  don't  want  to  fall  foul  of  any  one  or 
fly  in  the  face  of  any  rules.  But  what  is  Dr.  Jim 
doing  here  ?  This  is  Transvaal  territory.  I  must  have 
left  a  hundred  miles  of  it  behind  me,  at  least.  Why, 
there  must  have  passed  along  here  a  small  army, 
and  my  brother-in-law's  in  it.  ...  What  is  it  all 
about?" 

Guessing  now  he  was  not  a  surgeon,  the  man  spoke 
more  roughly.  "  Sure,  I  couldn't  tell  you !  But  my 
orders  are :  '  Don't  allow  any  one  to  come  on  further 
till  permission  is  given.'  That's  all.  If  that's  not  good 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  385 

enough,  I'll  have  the  mules  taken  out  of  your  cart." 
With  that  he  turned  away,  limping. 

Mervyn  decided  to  wait  events  for  a  day  or  two,  to 
see  what  turned  up.  He  slept  through  a  good  deal  of 
the  morrow — January  2,  1896 — inside  his  Cape  cart. 
On  the  morning  of  the  succeeding  day  there  was  a 
vague  uneasiness  about  the  scattered  mob  of  coloured 
men.  In  the  afternoon  their  numbers  lessened. 
Towards  sunset  three  of  the  white  Rhodesian  police 
had  their  horses  saddled  and  themselves,  despite  strains 
and  pains  and  other  damage,  hoisted  into  the  saddle. 
One  of  them,  as  he  rode  westwards,  passed  close  to 
Mervyn's  cart.  "  I  should  advise  you,"  he  said  in  a 
lowered  voice,  "  to  inspan  and  return  the  way  you 
came — drive  back  to  British  territory — all  night  if  you 
can.  Something  seems  to  have  gone  wrong.  I'm  off 
to  Mafeking  to  find  out  what  it  is " 

Mervyn  thanked  him  and  said  he'd  think  about  it. 
Inwardly  he  decided  to  wait  till  after  sunset  and  moon- 
rise,  in  case  a  couple  of  hours  brought  more  decisive 
news.  .  .  .  On  second  thoughts,  however,  he  had  the 
mules  harnessed,  and  then  sat  back  in  the  cart  watching 
the  fading  splendour  of  the  sunset  and  what  was  hap- 
pening among  the  black  men.  Something  like  a  third 
of  them  had  gone,  he  imagined,  but  quite  two-thirds 
were  staying  on,  determined  to  remain  where  they 
were  till  they  had  news  of  their  masters.  The  colour 
gradually  faded  from  the  western  sky,  but  a  new  day- 
light— greenish  yellow — appeared  in  the  east  and  out 
of  it  a  superb  full  moon  rose  into  sight,  slowly  chang- 
ing from  a  clear  straw-yellow,  with  all  the  dry  seas 
clearly  marked,  into  a  dazzling  white.  .  .  .  Hang  it 
all!  Whatever  he  did,  he  mustn't  go  to  sleep.  .  .  . 
Was  he  dreaming,  or  was  some  one  speaking? 
"  Baas,"  some  one  was  saying.  He  sat  up  on  the  seat 
inside  the  covered  cart.  "  What  is  it?  " 

It  was  not  one  of  his  own  men  speaking,  but  rather 


386  THE  VENEERINGS 

an  oddly  dressed,  tall,  athletic  negro,  of  whose  voice  he 
had  some  strange  reminiscence.  .  .  .  He  was  again 
talking,  low  and  jerkily,  in  some  African  language. 
From  its  clicks  it  must  be  Zulu  or  Kafir.  Evidently 
the  man  was  intensely  in  earnest,  almost  inclined  to  cry. 
.  .  .  Mervyn  descended  from  the  cart  and  sized  him 
up  and  down,  out  in  the  moonlight.  .  .  .  Why,  it  was 
a  man  of  Reggie's — a  sort  of  groom,  horse-boy.  .  .  . 
He  had  seen  him  months  ago  at  Fort  Tuli.  .  .  .  Not 
waiting  to  understand  further  he  followed  as  the  man 
walked  away  and  beckoned.  No  one  stopped  them  at 
the  stream.  .  .  .  They  crossed  it — passed  through 
brushwood  to  a  little  hollow  a  hundred  yards  or  so 
from  the  broad  track.  .  .  .  And  there  was  a  weary- 
looking  horse  with  hanging  head  and  some  kind  of  a 
trooper  huddled — tied — on  its  back,  unconscious  or 
making  no  sign. 

From  his  recognition  of  the  native  servant  he  was 
prepared  to  recognize  Reggie  in  this  pitiable  figure. 
As  he  went  up  to  the  horse,  whose  reins  had  been  fas- 
tened to  a  branch  and  who  was  still  trembling  and 
shuddering  in  its  fatigue,  the  huddled  figure  slightly 
raised  its  head  and  uttered  some  incomprehensible  re- 
mark from  a  dry  throat.  The  Matabele  groom  sprang 
up  behind  and  supported  the  wounded  white  man. 
Mervyn  untied  the  horse  and  led  it  back  to  the  road, 
and  thence  across  the  stream  to  his  cart. 

He  roused  his  two  servants.  With  the  aid  of  the 
Matabele  they  gently  detached  Reggie  Harmon  from 
the  saddle  and  lowered  him  into  their  arms;  then  car- 
ried him  to  Mervyn's  cart  and  placed  him  on  the  seat 
in  as  prone  an  attitude  as  possible.  He  was  only  half 
conscious.  Mervyn  realised  that  his  shirt  and  riding 
breeches  were  stiff  with  dried  blood  from  the  middle  of 
the  back  to  the  thighs.  .  .  .  His  weary  horse,  which  had 
borne  two  men  on  its  desperate  ride  from  the  scene  of  a 
fight,  was  relieved  of  saddle  and  bridle  and  turned  loose 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  387 

to  graze  or  to  follow  the  cart.  This  it  actually  did, 
for  the  cart,  on  account  of  the  wounded  man,  went  at  a 
walking  pace  along  the  dusty  road  westward. 

Mervyn  had  first  thought  of  driving  steadily  towards 
Ma f eking  and  getting  there — perchance — before  any 
advancing  Boer  force  could  stop  him ;  but  in  view  of 
Reggie's  half-conscious,  nearly  dead  condition,  such  an 
heroic  scheme  was  out  of  the  question.  He  found  a 
track  branching  off  to  the  south  from  that  which  had 
been  followed  by  Jameson's  force  and  drove  gently 
along  it  through  the  moonlit  night.  In  the  morning 
he  came  to  a  Boer  farm  near  the  source  of  a  stream 
which  flowed  southward  to  the  Vaal.  It  was  a  quiet 
country  as  yet,  uninfected  with  gold  discoveries,  and 
the  Boers  at  the  farm  had  heard  nothing  of  any  Jame- 
son raid.  Fortunately  Mervyn,  after  two  and  a  half 
years  of  South  Africa,  had  turned  his  remembrance  of 
Flemish  into  a  working  acquaintance  with  the  Taal  of 
Dutch  South  Africa.  He  told,  to  the  mistress  of  the 
farm,  a  plausible  tale  of  a  shooting  accident,  and  she, 
taken  with  his  pleasant  looks  and  touched  by  his  sad- 
ness, summoned  her  husband  and  sons  and  ordained 
the  bringing  in  of  the  badly-wounded  man  from  the 
cart  and  his  being  placed,  very  gently  and  carefully,  on 
a  flat  bed  of  dried  fern  and  blankets  which  they  had 
arranged  on  a  shaded  portion  of  the  stoep  while  prog- 
ress could  be  made  for  lodging  him  inside. 

The  guest-room  upstairs  was  offered  for  Reggie's 
use,  but  Mervyn,  after  glancing  at  the  way  thither — a 
rough  ladder-staircase — doubted  whether  it  would  be 
possible  to  convey  him  upwards  without  further  injury 
to  the  spine.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  .  .  .  The  veran- 
dah or  stoep  was  impossible ;  there  was  little  protection 
from  weather  and  night  chills ;  the  large  kitchen-eating- 
sitting-room  belonged  too  much  to  the  family  to  be 
thought  of  as  a  sick-room.  .  .  .  But  he  detected  a  door 
on  one  side  of  the  chimneypiece,  opened  the  latch  and 


388  THE  VENEERINGS 

peered  into  a  smaller  and  very  stuffy  apartment,  evi- 
dently reserved  as  a  sitting-room  of  honour.  It  had 
glassed  windows,  hermetically  shut,  and  smelt  rather 
pungently  of  unescaped  smoke  that  had  drifted  in  from 
cracks  in  the  kitchen  chimney  wall.  But  this  was  the 
pre-destined  refuge.  And  there  was  little  time  for 
parleying  or  hesitancy.  "  Could  we  have  the  use  of 
your  '  bezoekkamer  ?  '  '  (parlour)  he  asked  in  Cape 
Dutch. 

The  farmer's  wife  looked  very  reluctant;  her  pleas- 
ant face  quite  clouded,  and  if  Mervyn  had  spoken  in 
English  she  would  have  definitely  refused.  But  the 
fact  that  he  could  speak  some  sort  of  recognisable  Taal 
added  to  the  prepossession  of  his  face  and  manner. 
She  consented — and  to  make  this  acquiescence  more 
willing,  Mervyn  added  that  they  would  of  course  meet 
all  the  expense  of  a  cleaning  up  when  the  patient  was 
well  enough  to  be  removed. 

So,  as  there  was  no  time  to  lose  (he  explained)  if 
Reggie  was  not  to  die,  they  got  to  work  with  a  will. 
The  window  was  opened,  the  sons  aiding ;  the  furniture 
was  put  on  the  stoep  to  be  afterwards  disposed  of,  a 
wooden  bed-frame  with  hide  lashings  was  brought  in 
arid  feather  beds  were  placed  on  it.  A  large  pillow 
was  fetched  from  some  other  room ;  and  after  an  hour's 
strenuous  work  the  still  unconscious  wounded  man  was 
laid  on  the  bed,  on  which  Mervyn's  waterproof  sheet 
had  been  placed,  so  that  his  wounds  might  be  examined 
thoroughly,  then  washed  and  dressed. 

These  movements  restored  Reggie  to  a  brief  interval 
of  consciousness.  He  recognised  Mervyn  with  such  a 
look  of  relief  on  his  haggard  face  as  was — to  Mervyn 
— more  than  sufficient  reward  for  his  trouble  of 
mind. 

At  first  the  latter  thought,  out  of  delicacy,  that  his 
undressing  the  wounded  man,  his  examination  of  his 
wounds  should  be  conducted  with  the  help  only  of  male 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  389 

assistants;  but  Mevrouw  Veehoeder  (as  he  found  her 
name  was)  would  have  none  of  that.  She  explained, 
in  Cape  Dutch,  that  her  husband  and  sons  had  several 
times  had  gunshot  wounds  and  that  she  was  as  good  as 
any  heelmeester  (surgeon)  who  could  be  got — if  there 
were  any  such  who  would  deign  to  make  a  long  jour- 
ney from  a  mining  centre.  Mervyn  understood  the 
drift  of  her  meaning,  and  realised  the  truth  of  her 
words.  She  turned  out  of  the  room — which,  though 
rough,  was  now  cleanly,  and  with  a  pleasant  scent  that 
came  from  roses  blooming  outside — all  the  other 
persons  in  it  save  Mervyn  and  her  husband ;  who,  being 
told  to  go  and  seat  himself  on  the  stoep  till  he  was 
wanted,  did  so  meekly,  and  from  thence  carried  on  a 
conversation  with  his  sons  below. 

Mervyn  and  Mrs.  Veehoeder  removed  Reggie's  long 
boots  with  ease;  but  the  riding  breeches,  shirt,  and 
underclothing  were  a  great  difficulty  as  they  were 
coated,  stiff  with  blood,  round  the  middle  of  his  body. 
The  father  Boer  was  ordered  by  his  wife  to  go  into 
the  kitchen  and  prepare  warm  water  and  bring  in  a  tub. 
Mervyn  also  went  Out  to  his  cart  and  returned  with  his 
india-rubber  bath  and  anything  he  had  in  the  way  of 
spare  underclothes,  needle  and  cotton,  scissors  and  cot- 
ton wool.  The  Boeress,  on  his  return,  went  to  other 
rooms  and  came  back  with  clean  rags  and  an  old  petti- 
coat which  could  be  torn  up. 

With  infinite  trouble  over  obstacles  which  seemed  in- 
surmountable, much  stumbling  up  the  staircase-ladder 
and  clambering  down  again,  much  application  of  hot 
water,  many  groans  from  the  now-aroused  Reggie, 
they  removed  all  his  clothing  and  the  dried  blood  from 
both  sides  of  his  body,  and  found  the  wounds  in  front 
only  on  the  surface,  but  that  behind  he  had  narrowly 
escaped  death  by  a  severing  of  the  spine.  The  spinal 
marrow  must  still  be  intact,  because  he  could  feel  pain 
in  his  lower  limbs ;  but  evidently  the  bone  above  it  had 


390  THE  VENEERINGS 

been  ploughed  through  by  a  bullet,  just  where  it 
emerged  from  the  heavy  musculature  of  the  back. 
With  returning  consciousness  came  on  an  agonising 
pain;  besides,  it  was  apparent  to  any  one  who  knew 
anything  about  anatomy  that  the  greatest  care  must  be 
taken  not  to  jar  or  dislocate  the  wounded  spine.  It 
seemed  as  though,  for  some  days,  Mervyn  must  remain 
constantly  with  his  brother-in-law,  whilst  assistance 
was  being  summoned.  And  where  was  he  to  summon 
it  from? 

Mrs.  Veehoeder  suggested  Potchefstroom  as  the 
nearest  place.  Her  second  boy,  Marcus,  who  was 
handiest  with  beasts,  would  ride  there  on  one  of  the 
gentleman's  mules — Reggie's  war  horse  being  very 
lame — and  deliver  a  letter.  So  a  letter  was  written  to 
an  anonymous  surgeon  or  doctor  of  medicine  (surgeon 
preferable — it  stated)  and  sent  off  by  Marcus  Vee- 
hoeder, the  latter  being  adjured  by  his  mother  only  to 
deliver  it  at  the  house  of  one  who  should  be  recom- 
mended as  the  best  "  heelmeester  "  in  Potchefstroom. 
This  surgeon  was  informed  that  an  English  gentleman 
lay  very  ill  at  Mr.  Veehoeder's  farm  of  a  bullet  wound 
in  the  back.  With  him  was  his  brother-in-law,  Mr. 
Veneering  of  Table  Mountain,  who  could  not  leave  the 
patient,  but  would  pay  a  good  surgeon  or  physician  a 
sufficient  fee  to  come  out  from  Potchefstroom  and 
attend  to  the  wound. 

Mervyn  likewise  considered  it  might  be  a  good 
thing,  as  it  would  be  impossible  to  move  his  patient  for 
weeks  from  where  he  was,  not  to  rely  too  much  on 
the  seclusion  and  quiet  of  the  farm.  It  must  be  within 
three  or  four  days'  riding  or  driving  journey  of  the 
boiling-over  Johannesburg.  He  only  guessed  that 
something  had  gone  wrong  with  Jameson,  not  being 
able  to  get  the  least  information  out  of  Reggie  or  from 
his  Matabele  henchman.  These  Boers  with  whom  he 
was  lodging  might  know  a  little  Sesuto,  but  they  cer- 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  391 

tainly  knew  no  Kafir  or  Zulu,  and  Inkunzi  the  Mata- 
bele  only  spoke  Zulu  or  some  form  of  "  kitchen 
Kafir."  Evidently  Reggie  was  here  as  a  defeated 
soldier,  who  had  found  his  way  in  arms  into  a  country 
with  whom  we  were  not  at  war.  What  should  he  do? 
Wait  till  he  had  recovered  speech  and  intelligence  to 
find  out  the  facts  ?  That  was  the  best. 

On  the  third  day  after  their  arrival  at  Wilgenbosch 
farm,  Marcus  returned  on  the  mule  and  announced  the 
coming  of  Dr.  Christophsohn  just  behind  him.  The 
doctor  was  a  fair-haired,  spectacled  young  German, 
born  in  the  Transvaal,  but  educated  for  medicine  in 
the  Rhine  valley.  He  examined  Reggie  summarily, 
asked  a  few  questions  in  English,  and  then  turned 
round  on  Mervyn,  and  pulling  him  gently  into  the  light 
of  the  window  looked  into  his  face  and  felt  his  pulse. 

"  I  will  see  after  your  brother — is  he  not  your 
brother? — well,  your  brother-in-law.  I  will  stay  the 
night  here  and  ride  back  to-morrow  morning.  But, 
meantime — and  now — you  must  go  to  bed — go  to  bed 
and  sleep  till  I  wake  you  to-morrow  morning.  ..." 
Then  he  turned  to  the  Boer  hostess  and'  asked  her  in  the 
Taal  if  a  bed  could  not  be  made  up  for  Mervyn  else- 
where. He  himself  would  pass  the  night  with  the 
wounded  man,  with  intervals  of  rest  in  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Veehoeder  suggested  the  guest-room  upstairs 
could  be  got  ready  by  to-morrow;  meantime  Mervyn 
might  make  do  with  the  sofa  at  the  far  end  of  the 
kitchen.  "  All  right,"  he  answered,  almost  sleeping  as 
he  stood  up.  "  I'll  start  with  a  snooze  on  the  '  rust- 
bank.'  I  don't  think  I  ever  felt  so  sleepy." 

He  lay  down  on  this  fearsome  article  of  furniture,  so 
exhausted  and  overstrained,  yet  so  relieved  by  the 
arrival  of  a  competent  physician  who  could  speak  Eng- 
lish, that  he  slept  till  about  eight  in  the  evening;  was 
told  his  brother  was  at  any  rate  no  worse;  ate,  half  in  a 
dream,  some  soup  his  hostess  placed  before  him;  and 


392  THE  VENEERINGS 

then  slept  again  till  the  early  morning,  when  the  doctor 
roused  him  and  said  in  pedantic  English : 

"  Your  brother  has  come  near  to  dying  at  once — 
after  he  was  shot.  And  after  that  to  dying  in  three 
months — withering  away — dying  by  inches.  But  now 
there  is  a  chance,  he  may  live  to  be  old.  But  he  can 
never  ride  again — or  walk  much,  I  fear.  He  will 
always  be  invalid.  .  .  .  For  the  present  he  must  stop 
here  till  the  back  mends  enough.  .  .  .  Perhaps  a 
month.  .  .  .  Are  you  reech  ?  " 

"  Well — er "  replied  the  dishevelled  Mervyn, 

whose  thoughts  for  the  moment  rested  only  on  himself 
— :it  must  have  been  a  week  since  he  had  taken  off  his 
clothes  or  had  a  bath,  and  so  long  since  he  had  shaved 
that  he  had  better  now  shave  no  more  till  he  reached 
home  and  Elizabeth.  "  Well,  I  shouldn't  say  rich,  out 
here;  still  in  my  brother's  case  I  should  not  look  too 
closely  into  expenditure  if  only,  if  only  I  could  save 
him,  could  get  him  cured.  Do  you  think  he  will 
recover  ?  " 

'  Yes,  I  do.  But  always  afterwards  to  be  invalid. 
But  to  get  him  well  enough  to  leave  here  in  a  month 
you  must  do  much.  You  must  move  some  of  these 
Boers.  ...  I  will  talk  to  Mevrouw  and  see  what  she 
can  do.  She  is  a  kind  woman.  You  must  have  a 
trained  nurse — from  Potchefstroom — I  will  send  one 
out  in  a  cart.  .  .  .  She  shall  be  either  German  or  Eng- 
lish. .  .  .  This  is  a  wretched  place  in  which  to  nurse 
him,  but  good  climate.  He  cannot  be  moved — yet — or 
he  will  die.  So  he  must  be  nursed  here.  It  is  all  right 
if  you  have  money " 

"  Oh,  there's  no  bother  about  the  money.  .  .  .  But 
I'm  still  in  a  kind  of  dream,  in  a  nightmare.  What 
has  happened?  I  was  in  Bechuanaland  on  December 
30,  on  my  way  back  to  Cape  Town  where  I  live,  where 
my  wife  is.  This  is  her  brother.  Some  months  ago  he 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  393 

was  an  officer  commanding  at  Fort  Tuli,  in  Mashona- 
lancl.  I  was  collecting  plants  near  Victoria.  On  my 
way  back  I  hear  that  this  brother-in-law  has  accom- 
panied Dr.  Jameson  into  the  Transvaal.  I  turn  off  to 
follow  him  up.  I  am  stopped  at  a  small  river  and  made 
to  wait,  and  whilst  there  my  brother-in-law  is  brought 
back  on  a  horse,  wounded  like  you  see,  with  a  Zulu 
servant  in  charge  of  him.  Has  there  been  fighting? 
What  has  happened?  It's  all  like  a  ghastly  dream." 

"  Well,  there  has  been  righting,  and  all  your  Dr. 
Jameson's  troop  was  taken  prisoner — to  Pretoria.  .  .  . 
There  they  will  be  tried.  .  .  .  That  is  no  business  of 
mine,  though  I  strongly  disapprove  of  Dr.  Jameson.  I 
suppose  this  gentleman  here  was  with  him?" 

"  I  suppose  he  was.  But  what  can  I  do?  I  can't 
leave  him — at  present.  If  the  Boers  come  to  arrest 
him,  it  will  kill  him  to  be  moved " 

"  My  dear  sir — for  the  present  do  nothing.  If 
'  Zarps  '  come  here  to  arrest  him,  give  them  this  card 
of  mine.  .  .  .  No,  stay;  before  I  go  I  will  write  a 
letter.  You  shall  give  it  them,  if  they  come.  .  .  .  And 
your  own  name — it  is  a  Dutch  one,  Van  Eering?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly.  My  people  may  have  come  from 
Flanders  centuries  ago,  but  they  have  been  in  England 
something  like  two  hundred  years.  Still,  strange  to 
say,  my  father  and  mother  settled  in  France  and  my 
mother  now  spells  her  name  as  you  pronounce  it.  But 

I  spell  mine  thus " — and  he  took  a  card  from  his 

note  case  in  his  pocket,  and  added :  "  I  am  a  partner 
in  the  firm  of  Harmon,  Veneering,  the  drug  merchants, 
but  at  present  I  am  living  with  my  wife  at  Table  Moun- 
tain studying  the  medical  flora  of  South  Africa." 

"Harmon,  Veneering?  Why,  I  know  their  medi- 
cines well,  often  use  them.  .  .  .  Wonderful  —  truly 
wonderful,  now,  that  I  should  meet  you,  in  an  obscure 
part  of  the  Transvaal!  " 


394  THE  VENEFUINGS 

Three  days  afterwards  the  nurse  chosen  by  Dr. 
Christophsohn  arrived  from  Potchefstroom  in  a  Cape 
cart,  and  brought  with  her  a  host  of  necessary  things 
which  the  doctor,  reasurred  at  Mervyn's  name  and 
connections,  had  paid  for.  As  soon  as  she  was  well 
established  at  the  Willow  farm,  Mervyn  drove  down 
to  Potchefstroom  in  his  own  cart  with  the  mules  re- 
stored to  vigour.  He  had  an  account  from  his  Cape 
Town  bank  opened  at  its  Potchefstroom  branch,  had 
his  hair  cut,  called  on  Dr.  Christophsohn,  stayed  the 
night  at  his  house,  and  started  the  next  morning  to 
drive  back  to  the  Willow  farm  up  the  valley  of  the 
Mooi  River.  Before  going,  however,  he  had  de- 
spatched a  telegram  to  Elizabeth  at  Trelawney  Villa,  to 
this  effect : 

"  Cable  mother  England  saying  Reggie  and  I  South- 
ern Transvaal  all  right.  Am  soon  returning  to  you. — 
Mervyn." 

The  real  state  of  the  case  could  be  told  in  letters. 
This,  at  any  rate,  with  the  news  that  must  now  be 
raging  through  England,  would  save  them  anxiety. 
For  himself  he  purchased  numerous  books  from  a 
library  and  such  choicer  provisions  as  could  be  ob- 
tained ;  for  his  own  stock  in  his  Cape  cart  was  getting 
very  low,  and  the  indigenous  fare  at  the  Veehoeders' 
was  rough  and  elementary,  though  it  included  that 
supreme  boon,  milk,  in  abundance.  He  also  took  back 
with  him  a  cheque-book  on  the  Potchefstroom  bank 
and  fifty  pounds  in  notes. 

Soon  after  his  return  to  Wilgenbosch  and  the  in- 
quiries about  Reggie's  condition  from  the  nurse,  he 
sought  out  Mrs.  Veehoeder  and  placed  in  her  hand  an 
envelope  containing  fifty  pounds  in  five-pound  notes. 
She  looked  through  the  little  bundle  of  ten  crisp  notes 
with  something  like  amazement,  perhaps  at  first  not 
quite  grasping  their  value ;  then,  when  he  explained  in 
the  best  Afrikaansch  he  could  muster  that  it  was  to  go 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  395 

towards  the  expenses,  and  to  console  her  for  the  upset 
in  her  home,  she  gave  way  to  a  mixture  of  tears  and 
laughter,  moderated  in  its  vehemence  by  precautions  as 
to  not  waking  the  patient — often  and  so  long  asleep — 
or  angering  the  rather  stern-looking  hospital  nurse. 
"  I  took  him  in  because  I  liked  your  face,"  she  ex- 
plained in  Cape  Dutch,  "  and  because  my  heart  is  al- 
ways soft  towards  men  that  have  been  hurt.  I  guess 
now  that  he  was  one  of  the  Engelschmans  who  came 
in  here  to  join  Johannesburg  against  Pretoria  and 
worry  Oom  Paul.  But  there!  Men  are  always  fight- 
ing against  some  one  or  something.  If  the  Zarps  want 
him  they  must  come  and  take  him!  Ik  zal  niets 
zeggen !  " 

"  He  is  my  '  schoonbroeder,'  "  explained  Mervyn, 
"  my  wife's  brother.  He  may  have  been  fighting 
Kruger's  people  outside  Johannesburg;  I  cannot  say, 
for  he  has  been  too  ill  to  talk  to  me ;  all  I  know  is  that 
I  have  not,  and  that  I  found  him  on  his  horse  on  the 
veld,  alone  with  his  Matabele  servant.  The  whole 
thing  has  seemed  a  miracle  to  me.  For  myself,  I  was 
returning  from  a  far  country  beyond  the  Limpopo,  and 
not  fighting  anybody.  What  I  have  given  you  is  very 
little.  You  have  had  to  send  your  daughters  away  to 
live  in  some  other  house.  We  have  put  you  to  great 
trouble  and  wasted  your  time;  but  if  only  my  dear 
schoonbroeder  recovers,  and  I  can  take  him  to  my  home 
on  the  Tafelberg,  I  shall  give  you  more  money  and 
shall  never  forget  your  kindness." 

Then  he  staggered — for  he  was  very  tired  arid  stiff — 
into  Reggie's  room.  A  faint  voice  came  from  the  bed 
where  the  wounded  man  lay.  It  thrilled  him  for  it  was 
Reggie  speaking,  intelligibly — something  to  the  effect 
of  "That  you,  Mervyn?  I've  been  going  through  a 
ghastly  time.  .  .  .  Can't  quite  recollect  what  has  hap- 
pened or  how  I  come  not  to  be  dead.  ...  Or  perhaps 
I  am  dead  and  you  are  too." 


396  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  No,  old  chap,"  replied  his  brother-in-law,  so 
bursting  with  sudden  happiness  that  he  added,  "  Thank 
God!  You're  not  dead  nor  am  I,  and  you're  going 
to  get  better  and  going  home — home — think  of  it! 
England!  .  .  .  with  me,  with  us — Elizabeth  and  Cecil. 
.  .  .  All  in  good  time.  But  you've  had  a  devilish 
nasty  wound,  one  very  bad  one  in  the  back  and  a  num- 
ber of  slight  ones  in  front;  but  fortunately  the  bullets 
went  out  after  coming  in,  so  there's  had  to  be  no 
probing.  Patience  now,  and  everything  will  heal.  .  .  . 
Then  we'll  travel  gently  home  to  Table  Mountain,  and 
after  that  to  England.  You're  in  a  Boer  farmhouse,  a 
day's  journey  from  Potchefstroom,  and  here  you've 
got  to  stop  on  your  back,  till  you're  healed  enough  to 
travel  by  rail  to  Cape  Town.  We've  got  an  excellent 
nurse  for  you,  and  a  rattling  good  doctor  from 
Potchefstroom,  and  I'm  only  just  back  thence.  Had 
to  drive  in  there  to  send  word  home  by  telegram,  don't 
you  know,  and  get  some  things  for  you  and  me  to  eat. 
Now  you  must  be  a  good  boy  and  do  exactly  as  you're 

told  by  Nurse "  he  effected  a  bow  towards  the 

figure  shown  up  by  candle  light — the  figure  supplied 
the  forgotten  name — Grafenstein — "  Nurse  Graf  en- 
stein,  and  as  soon  as  the  back  permits,  we'll  make  a 
start  for  the  railway  and  Elizabeth ;  and  afterwards  for 
HOME." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  "  home  "  he  meant 
this  time.  Somehow,  in  a  moment,  South  Africa  had 
become  hateful  and  foreign  to  him.  Strophanthus 
could  go  to  the  devil,  and  Anacampseros  likewise. 
Hang  it  all!  One  must  think  of  oneself  sometimes. 
Drugs  were  all  very  well,  but  Humanity  was  damned 
ungrateful.  To  him,  as  to  so  many  others  about  that 
time,  the  Jameson  Raid  quite  illogically  snapped  the 
ties  of  interest  in  Trans-Zambezia.  He  became  sud- 
denly sick  of  these  eighty  years'  wrangles  between 
Boer  and  Briton,  Jew  and  German,  Hottentot  and 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  397 

Kafir.  Hang  the  gold,  to  hell  with  the  diamonds! 
Pish  for  the  coal,  pooh  for  the  wool,  yah-bah  for  the 
jam  and  the  fruits,  the  wine  and  the  sugar.  Memories 
came  over  him  of  Cape  politicians — unlovely,  untidy 
men,  gross  of  appetite,  wine-bibbers  and  whiskey 
drinkers,  of  appalling  ignorance  concerning  science, 
biology,  languages,  manners,  music,  literature.  He 
suddenly  hated  South  African  mountains  with  bare 
precipices  and  flat,  treeless  tops,  South  African  broiling 
sunshine  and  bitter  cold  nights,  South  African  fleas, 
mosquitoes,  locusts,  flies,  and  ants;  the  baldness  of  it, 
the  blazing  daylight,  the  prickly  pear,  the  wait-a-bit 
thorns,  the  endless  distance  with  grass  tufts  repeated  by 
the  million  so  far  as  eyesight  could  discriminate,  the 
artificial  look  of  the  planted  trees,  the  callow  cold- 
heartedness  of  the  accursed  corrugated  iron. 

Before  these  bitter  thoughts  had  spent  themselves 
and  unseen  tears  had  welled  up  in  tired  eyes,  Reggie 
had  feebly  thanked  him  and  sunk  once  more  into  heal- 
ing slumber.  Mervyn  pulled  himself  together  and 
spoke  nicely  to  the  German-South-African  nurse. 
Then  he  returned  to  his  upstairs  room,  threw  open  its 
window,  lit  a  lamp,  glanced  at  his  store  of  new  books, 
and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  undressed  into  pyjamas 
and  an  easy  coat  and  mosquito-proof  stockings,  ate  the 
soup  and  jam  and  dumplings  which  Mrs.  Veehoeder 
presently  brought  in;  and  by  nine  o'clock  dropped  off 
to  sleep  with  his  pipe  in  one  hand.  Mrs.  Veehoeder 
came  in,  not  too  noisily,  took  away  the  plate  and  dish 
and  pipe,  extinguished  the  lamp,  and  he  never  woke  till 
the  nurse  called  him  at  five  the  next  morning. 

*  5ft  *  *  * 

Well,  about  the  middle  of  February  in  that  year, 
Reggie  was  sufficiently  healed  for  the  Cape  Town  jour- 
ney to  be  attempted.  They  bade  farewell  with  real 
regret  to  the  kindly  Veehoeders,  who,  when  all  ex- 
penses had  been  refunded  and  outlay  made  good,  must 


398  THE  VENEERINGS 

have  realised  quite  one  hundred  pounds  out  of  the 
shelter  afforded  to  the  wounded  man,  and  were  touch- 
ingly  grateful  for  the  money.  Nurse  Grafenstein  ac- 
companied the  two  men  to  Trelawney  Villa  with  sev- 
eral halts  by  the  way — in  fact  they  took  about  ten  days 
over  the  journey.  Here  she  stayed  on,  not  only  to  give 
attention  to  Captain  Harmon,  but  later  to  assist  in  see- 
ing Elizabeth  through  her  accouchement,  which  took 
place  in  March. 

Elizabeth  gave  birth  to  another  boy,  and  it  was 
decided  to  name  it  "  John  Mervyn."  Reggie  was  to  be 
one  of  its  unorthodox  godfathers.  His  brother,  John 
Junior,  by  now  a  fellow  of  his  college,  was  to  be  the 
other,  and  would  be  informed  of  that  by  letter,  while 
Mervyn,  at  the  baptism,  deputised  for  him.  John 
might  also  assume  that  the  first  of  the  two  names  be- 
stowed on  the  infant  was  his,  though  in  reality  it  was 
his  father  whom  Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  had  in  mind, 
Reggie  having,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  broken  life,  de- 
clined any  perpetuation  of  his  own  unlucky  name. 

Elizabeth  did  not  recover  from  her  second  confine- 
ment as  quickly  as  she  had  done  from  the  first;  and 
Cecil  was  such  a  sturdy,  opinionated  child  that  he  re- 
quired the  exclusive  attention  of  the  soldier 's-widow- 
nurse.  So  Miss  Grafenstein,  who  had  stayed  on  and 
on,  helping  Reggie  to  mend,  and  assisting  to  repair 
Elizabeth,  agreed  to  go  with  her  to  England.  They  did 
not  start  till  the  beginning  of  May.  They  were  met 
at  Plymouth  by  John  and  Bella  and  left  the  steamer 
there.  After  three  years'  absence,  England  seemed  to 
Mervyn,  Reggie,  and  Elizabeth  an  earthly  paradise ;  to 
Nurse  Grafenstein,  who  had  never  previously  been  out- 
side South  Africa,  it  was  such  a  vision  of  beauty  and 
decorum  and  Nature  brought  under  restraint,  that  it 
came  near  to  upsetting  her  admirably  arranged  and 
controlled  disposition.  She  felt  she  could  never  go 
back  to  South  Africa,  and  in  fact — so  far  as  I  can  find 


MERVYN  AND  REGGIE  399 

out — never  did.  She  remained  for  some  months  with 
Mrs.  Harmon  to  assist  in  looking  after  Reggie,  and 
when  Reggie — always  rather  a  cripple — grew  tolerably 
well,  she  went  over  to  see  Hannover,  near  which  place 
her  immigrated  German  relatives  lived. 


CHAPTER  XX 
1896-1899 

AS  I  explained,  or  intended  to  explain,  some  time 
ago,  the  last  century  really  ended  in  1894  and  the 
twentieth  period  began  in  1895  with  a  crowd  of  new 
or  first-hazarded  inventions.  We  feel  less  estranged 
from  the  people  who  moved  about  civilised  capitals  in 
1896  because,  if  they  were  curious  in  such  matters, 
they  might  have  seen  electric  broughams  and  the  first 
motor  cars  and  motor  cycles  in  two  or  three  of  the 
greatest  cities  of  Western  Europe.  Such  advances 
were  rendered  possible,  not  only  by  a  better  under- 
standing of  petrol  and  electricity,  but  most  of  all,  like 
the  safety  bicycle,  by  that  invention  of  Dunlop's,  the 
pneumatic  tyre. 

Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  had  returned  to  a  greatly 
advanced  England,  when  they  had  been  able  to  take 
stock  of  their  surroundings  at  Chacely,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  June,  1896.  Every  one — every  man,  at  any 
rate — between  the  ages  of  fifteen  and  sixty  seemed  to 
be  riding  a  bicycle.  Many  girls  and  young  women  also 
rode,  and  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left  as  they  passed 
this  man  of  thirty-four  and  this  woman  of  twenty-six, 
both  bewildered,  yet  in  ecstasies,  over  the  changes 
three  years  had  wrought  in  their  own  land.  Of  course, 
they  had  seen  pictures  and  indications  of  these  new  in- 
ventions in  the  English  papers,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
numerous  boys  of  coloured  mixture  in  Cape  Town,  an 
occasional  young  officer  in  civil  garb,  or  even  an  adven- 

400 


1896-1899  4QI 

turous  aide-de-camp  attending  on  the  Governor  had 
ridden  bicycles  and  tricycles  with  pneumatic  tyres  in 
and  around  Cape  Town.  And  the  bicycle,  in  some 
shape  or  form,  had  been  known  since  the  'sixties,  as  an 
eccentric  means  of  locomotion. 

But  now  it  was  and  had  been,  since  1894,  of  univer- 
sal application  in  the  Homeland.  The  old  bone-shaker 
had  abruptly  disappeared;  and  the  thick-tyred,  equal- 
sized  wheels  of  the  Dunlop  type  everywhere  met  the 
eye.  Motor  carriages  to  be  moved  by  electricity,  or 
"  gasoline,"  or  some  other  form  of  petrol,  were  being 
manufactured  in  haste,  the  law  forbidding  the  use  of  a 
horseless  carriage  on  roads  (save  at  a  rate  not  exceed- 
ing four  miles  an  hour  and  preceded  by  a  man  with  a 
red  flag)  having  been  abrogated. 

Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  felt  they  had  come  to  a  new 
England,  and  were  avid  of  further  reforms  and  en- 
largements. Would  it — could  it — be  possible  that  mar- 
riage with  a  deceased  wife's  sister  might  become  legal 
that  year  through  action  in  both  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment? But  no.  Even  while  they  stayed — rejoicing, 
expanding,  talking,  smiling — at  Chacely,  it  became  cer- 
tain that  the  Bill,  passed  by  a  majority  headed  by 
princes  in  the  House  of  Lords,  would  never,  under  the 
existing,  ruling  party  be  admitted  into  the  House  of 
Commons.  Eighteen  bishops  had  voted  against  it! 
And  Canon  Milvey  evidently  felt  very  uncomfortable 
in  meeting  Mervyn  and  his  wife  at  Chacely.  His  wife, 
to  take  off  the  chilling  effect  of  his  reserve,  was  almost 
effusive;  so  that  the  presence  there  of  Mervyn,  Eliza- 
beth, and  their  babies  seemed  to  be  bringing  discord 
into  an  absolutely  blameless  household. 

It  was  decided  between  them,  in  private  bedroom 
conferences,  that  if  Madison  and  Helen  were  agreeable 
to  the  idea — as  Helen  certainly  seemed  to  be — the 
Mervyn  household  and  Hetty  should  take  up  their 
abode  in  Wigmore  Street  in  the  autumn.  Madison 


402  THE  VENEERINGS 

would  then  be  able  to  pay  an  autumn  visit  to  his 
parents  in  New  York,  arid  Helen  and  her  children  could 
have  a  good  long  stay  at  Chacely.  Meantime,  if  one 
or  other  of  them  went  away,  it  would  make  things 
easier.  Mervyn,  out  of  decency  and  affection,  must  go 
to  see  his  mother  at  Pau ;  and  he  had  a  lot  to  talk  over 
with  Gaston  about  the  Pyrenees  plantations  and  the 
French  company. 

Mrs.  Harmon  was  so  transported  with  delight  at 
getting  her  son  Reggie  back  from  the  dead,  the  utterly 
lost;  and  having  him  returned  in  such  an  amenable 
condition,  even  with  a  badly  injured  back,  that  all 
projects  proposed  by  her  children  seemed  acceptable. 
Her  husband,  though  he  did  not  say  much,  even  to 
Mervyn,  felt  the  latter  had  repaid  him  fully  for  his  own 
help  and  backing.  Beside  these  mounds  of  affection, 
how  trivial  seemed  the  beginning  of  disapproval  in  the 
outer  world  at  Mervyn  having  married — "  if  you  could 
call  it  'married'!" — his  deceased  wife's  sister!  Yet 
the  lurking  disapproval  was  there  and  made  itself  most 
disagreeably  manifest  in  the  coldness  and  silent  dis- 
approval of  Canon  Milvey. 

Lady  Feenix,  of  course,  was  in  favour  of  your 
marrying  anything  beyond  the  limit  of  a  mere  first 
cousin,  of  your  doing  anything  which  led  to  the  pro- 
duction of  healthy,  well-grown  children,  was  desired 
by  both  parties,  and  was  not  actual  polygamy.  She 
had,  like  all  who  knew  her,  deplored  the  death  of 
Mervyn's  first  wife,  and  really  thought,  under  all  the 
circumstances,  there  was  no  more  suitable  second  wife 
and  mother  to  little  Hetty  than  Elizabeth ;  and  that  in 
going  out  to  South  Africa  to  be  married  and  in  after- 
wards living  there  in  exile  for  three  years,  they  had 
done  all  in  delicacy  that  their  most  fastidious  friends 
in  England  could  have  expected ;  and  as  to  what  your 
tmfriends  thought  and  said,  why  nothing  you  could  do 
satisfied  them.  So  Suzanne  made  haste  to  invite  Mer- 


1896-1899  403 

vyn  and  Elizabeth  to  lunch,  any  day  they  liked,  before 
Mervyn  left  Chacely.  It  was  probably  a  mere  accident 
that  the  day  they  chose  happened  to  be  an  occasion 
when  Lord  Feenix  had  to  be  up  in  Town.  His  absence 
made  the  visit  to  Deerhurst  altogether  delightful.  They 
stayed  on  after  lunch  and  played  tennis  and  then  had 
tea,  and  then  Suzanne  said,  "  Why  not  an  early  din- 
ner? There's  no  one  coming  to-night,  and  we'll  none 
of  us  '  dress,'  and  there's  a  moon,  and  you  can  drive 
home  by  moonlight."  It  was  all  so  delightful,  and 
Lady  Feenix  was  so  understanding  and  wise  she  might 
have  been  a  nice,  lesser  goddess  of  early  Greece;  so 
they  stayed,  and  Elizabeth  did  not  see  her  second  babe 
till  midnight.  However,  the  nurse  thought  for  once  the 
recourse  to  the  nursing  milk — a  patent  of  Harmon, 
Veneering  and  Co. — might  not  be  a  bad  thing — just  as 
a  change,  and  later — for  John  Mervyn — say  once  a 
week — a  hint  of  the  eventual  weaning. 

By  the  middle  of  June  Mervyn  had  transferred  him- 
self to  Wigmore  Street  for  the  overhauling  of  things 
in  London.  He  paid  a  perfunctory  and  none  too  agree- 
able visit  to  Lavvy  and  George.  Lavvy,  on  principle, 
she  said,  though  no  one  could  get  her  to  define  the 
principle — disapproved  of  his  second  marriage,  and 
even  expressed  a  doubt  whether  she  could  receive  her 
niece  when  she  came  to  London — Fulham  was  so  very 
particular  because  the  Bishop  of  London  lived  there; 
and  George  was  a  churchwarden  at  St.  Saviour's. 

In  two  days  after  leaving  London,  Mervyn  was  at 
Pau,  seeing  his  mother.  Here  the  atmosphere  was 
altogether  different  from  Fulham.  His  mother,  in  the 
Rue  Henri  Quatre,  sighed  a  good  deal,  and  rattled  her 
keys,  but  her  sigh  was  not  particularly  indicative  of 
grief,  only  a  vague  commentary  on  the  fact  that  he  had 
passed  more  than  three  years  entirely  separated  from 
her,  and  involved  intricately  in  the  affairs  of  many 
persons  she  did  not  know.  The  rattling  of  the  keys 


404  THE  VENEERINGS 

was  sub-conscious,  and  if  it  indicated  anything,  merely 
showed  that  she  was  quite  satisfied  in  these  later  days 
with  her  domestic  arrangements  and  a  presumption  of 
mastery  over  her  household  of  two  efficient  servants. 
Only  two  out  of  the  bunch  of  keys  opened  any  lock  in 
use,  and  those  were  in  cabinets  so  often  resorted  to 
that  they  were  usually  left  unlocked.  If  questioned — 
which,  of  course,  would  never  occur — she  would  have 
said  that  the  bunch  of  keys  was  merely  a  symbol  which 
she  held  for  a  short  time  every  morning  after 
breakfast. 

As  regards  Mervyn's  trouble  over  his  deceased  wife's 
sister,  she  pointed  out  that  if  he  and  she  would  only 
join  the  Church  of  Rome,  the  whole  matter  could  be 
simplified ;  for  in  that  Church  the  little  difficulty  was 
regarded  as  trivial  and  easily  dispensed  with  by  a  Papal 
dispensation.  Rome,  she  pointed  out,  kept  the  Scrip- 
tures in  their  proper  places,  and  did  not  allow  Exodus 
or  Leviticus  to  press  uncomfortably  on  modern  peo- 
ple's lives. 

His  brother  Lance  was  a  parish  priest  at  Orthez. 
He  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  Bishop  of  Bayonne,  and 
Madame  Van  Eering  once  again  expressed  her  indebt- 
edness to  Mervyn  for  his  intervention  in  Lance's  af- 
fairs. Herein  something  of  the  real  woman,  of  the  old 
"  Mrs.  Veneering,"  showed  itself.  For  the  rest,  her 
son  computed  her  age  at  about  sixty-two.  Her  finances 
had  remained  undisturbed  since  his  last  intervention, 
the  re-spelling  of  the  name — Van  Eering — seemed,  to- 
gether with  her  Catholicism,  to  make  her  so  happy  and 
satisfied  with  life:  why  disturb  either  illusion? 

Three  days  were  spent  punctiliously  over  his  mother 
and  her  affairs,  and  one  afternoon  was  surrendered  to 
a  meeting  with  Lance,  who  came  over  from  Orthez  for 
the  purpose.  He  insisted  on  talking  French  only,  pre- 
texting that  he  had  begun  to  forget  English.  Mervyn, 
on  the  other  hand,  found  that  three  and  a  half  years' 


1896-1899  405 

absence  from  France,  most  of  it  in  a  South  Africa 
which  was  singularly  out  of  touch  with  the  French 
language,  had  considerably  affected  his  fluency.  How- 
ever, he  was  polite  and  avoided  subjects  of  animated 
discussion. 

At  the  close  of  three  days'  filial  duties  he  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  both  perturbed  and  piqued  at  the  silence 
from  the  villa — Mme.  de  Lamelle's  residence — and 
from  Oloron,  where  Jeanne  and  Gaston  were  now 
living,  Jeanne's  large  family  having  greatly  abstracted 
her  interest  and  attention  from  the  plantations.  Then, 
on  mentioning  his  anxiety  as  to  their  silence  to  his 
mother,  she  suddenly  remembered  her  having  failed — 
"  totally  forgotten  " — to  let  them  know  of  his  return. 
She  would  write  at  once.  But  he  stopped  her.  "  It 
will  be  greater  fun  taking  them  by  surprise.  Besides, 
I  can  do  everything  more  deliberately." 

So  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day — a  Sunday — 
he  drove  out  to  the  Villa  Cyrnos,  and  announced  him- 
self. A  nice-looking  housemaid  opened  the  door. 
"  Oui.  Madame  de  Lamelle  et  Miss  Podes-nap  re- 
goivent  cette  apres-midi.  Si  Monsieur  laissera  son 
chapeau  ici  il  en  sera  moins  encombre  dans  le  salon." 
He  enters  a  rather  floridly,  somewhat  gorgeously  fur- 
nished drawing-room.  "  Georgy's  taste,"  he  says  to 
himself,  smiling,  and  has  scarcely  finished  the  remark 
than  Georgy  is  upon  him — affection,  agitation,  sur- 
prise, making  her  quite  young  and  agile.  Her  greeting 
is  so  warm,  so  full  of  affection  that  she  nearly  kisses 
him,  but  remembers  in  time  Sophie's  lectures  about 
self-restraint  at  this  dangerous,  intermediate  stage  in 
her  life.  But  before  the  eager  welcome  is  dimmed  in 
her  affectionate  eyes,  Mme.  de  Lamelle  herself  comes  in, 
a  little  majestically,  and  plying  a  rubber- feruled  ebony 
stick  as  a  precaution  against  slipping.  Her  back  is  a 
little  bowed,  her  hair  is  quite  white,  but  she  is  a  majes- 
tic old  lady,  though  it  occurs  to  Mervyn  in  a  rapid 


4o6  THE  VENEERINGS 

thought-flash  that  he  never  thought  of  her  as  an  "  old  " 
lady  before. 

"  My  dear  Mervyn,"  she  says,  in  a  voice  which  has 
a  quaver  from  emotion,  "  what  a  delightful  surprise ! 
How  truly  glad  we  are — both — to  see  you.  I  had  be- 
gun to  fear  it  would  be  '  never  again '  in  my  case. 
D'you  know  I  am  seventy-five?  We  heard  a  rumour 
that  you  and  your  wife  were  back,  but  it  was  only  a 
rumour — from  Jeanne,  who  had  heard  it  from  Lance, 
who  in  an  uncomfortable  way  seems  to  know  every- 
thing that  is  going  on.  To  keep  ourselves  abreast  of 
him,  we  have  to  pretend  we  also  know.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
glad!  ...  I  so  feared  at  times  I  should  die  before  I 
saw  you  again." 

Her  fine  dark  eyes  were  actually  full  of  tears  as  she 
spoke.  But  the  tears  did  not  fall.  They  were  gradu- 
ally absorbed,  leaving  the  eyes  quite  bright  and  young, 
in  contrast  with  the  finely-wrinkled  face. 

"  Come  and  sit  next  me !  Georgy,  pet,  would  you 
tell  the  household  to  prepare  an  unusually  gorgeous  tea 
and  also  to  say  '  not  at  home '  to  any  callers  ?  We 
won't  have  this  memorable  occasion  spoilt  by  any  local 
triviality." 

Before  Georgy  could  reach  the  maid  and  deliver  her 
message  there  was  a  clamour  of  voices  outside,  the 
door  flew  open  and  in  sailed  Jeanne.  Mervyn  and  she 
were  locked  in  each  other's  arms  for  a  minute;  then 
she  held  him  back  for  a  moment  by  the  arms,  winked 
her  eyes  to  baffle  the  tears,  and  kissed  him  solemnly  on 
each  cheek;  looked  again;  and  detaching  herself, 
dabbed  her  eyes  with  a  filmy  handkerchief,  and  sank 
into  a  gorgeously  upholstered  chair  near  by. 

"  You  dear,  dear  boy.  Why — why  on  earth  steal 
suddenly  into  our  midst  like  this  ?  I  heard  this  morn- 
ing from  Lance  about  a  Church  matter,  and  at  the  end 
of  his  letter  he  said :  '  I  suppose  you  know  Mervyn  is 
back  from  South  Africa,  staying  with  mother ! '  I 


1896-1899  407 

ordered  the  victoria,  drove  round  to  the  station,  caught 
the  one  o'clock  train  to  Pan,  flew  to  mother's  house — I 
think  I  was  too  much  in  a  hurry  to  look  for  a  carriage. 
But  she  was  quite  tranquil,  with  her  keys,  and  told  me 
you  had  probably  come  on  here.  What  an  excitement 
it  has  been!  My  elder  children  must  be  thinking  all 
sorts  of  things  have  happened.  Gaston  is  away  at 
Prades,  but  I  have  telegraphed  to  him.  You  dear,  dear 
boy!  And  where  is  Elizabeth?  Have  you  left  her 
behind?" 

"  Elizabeth  is  absolutely  demobilised  by  her  babies, 
so  I  left  her  at  Chacely;  spent  a  fortnight  looking  into 
affairs  at  Mincing  Lane,  and  then  came  on  to  mother's 
house  at  Pau.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  written  and 
telegraphed.  Perhaps  I  did ;  perhaps  I  forgot.  You've 
heard  all  about  Reggie,  I  imagine  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  anything.     I  suppose  he's  alive?  " 

"  Quite.  Well :  that  shall  all  be  told  to  you  in  good 
time.  Now,  here  I  am :  till  our  dear  friend  here  feels 
tired.  She  must  tell  us  when  she  does,  and  I'll  go 
away.  I'm  going  to  make  myself  quite  at  home,  if 
she'll  let  me?  "  (Mme.  de  Lamelle  patted  his  hand  to 
confirm  this  liberty  of  action.)  "  Consequently,  I'll  go 
out  and  pay  my  driver  and  do  the  same  by  yours, 
Jeanne.  And  then  we'll  stay  till  I've  told  you  all  most 
things  you  want  to  know?  What  time  does  the  last 
train  go  to  Oloron  from  Pau  ?" 

"  Nine-thirty." 

(To  Mme.  de  Lamelle)  :  "  May  she  stay  here  till 
nine  ?  " 

"Of  course  she  may,  you  ridiculous  boy,  or  sleep  the 
night,  and  you  too.  ...  I  dare  say  we  could  lend  you 
night-gowns." 

"  No,  we  need  not  go  so  far  as  that.  She  has  her 
children  to  look  after,  and  later  on  I'm  coming  here  en 
regie  to  stay  with  you.  Very  well,  I'll  go  outside  and 
settle." 


408  THE  VENEERINGS 

"  Then,  when  you  come  back  you  will  find  us  in  the 
library.  It  is  far  cooler  there  in  the  afternoon.  And 
as  to  the  evening  .  .  .  though  on  Sundays  we  give  a 
holiday  as  much  as  possible  to  our  coachman,  we'll 
send  word  to  the  stables  and  he  shall  drive  you  into  Pau 
at  nine  o'clock." 

Three  days  afterwards  Gaston  broke  tempestuously 
into  the  quiet  of  the  Rue  Henri  Quatre,  kissed  Mervyn 
on  both  cheeks,  wrung  his  hands,  and  in  eye-glances 
and  accent  testified  to  the  sincerity  of  his  affection  and 
the  reality  of  his  delight  at  getting  him  back. 

They  started  soon  afterwards,  despite  the  heat  of 
mid-day,  for  a  visit  to  the  Gave  d'Aspe,  a  three  days' 
tour;  and  after  the  return  there  was  a  meeting  of  the 
French  directorate  at  Pau  at  the  company's  office  in 
the  Rue  Gassies.  One  or  two  of  the  directors  had  not 
hitherto  met  Mervyn,  and  only  knew  by  report  that  he 
was  "  une  espece  d' Anglais,  asses  charmant,  intelligent, 
mais " 

The  "  mais  "  and  the  unfinished  phrase  might  cover 
anything,  and  in  those  days,  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  French  suspicions  of  English  personalities  had 
become  positively  morbid,  though  perhaps  less  acute  in 
the  Pyrenees  by  reason  of  the  events  of  1814,  which 
had  left  long-lasting  impressions.  Mervyn  had  only 
put  in  an  appearance  once  or  twice  before  this  Pyre- 
nean  Board  after  the  separate  constitution  of  the  com- 
pany, so  it  was  just  as  well  now  that  the  situation 
should  be  faced  and  pleasant  relations  be  established. 
He  felt  inwardly  a  little  bit  nervous,  but  five  minutes  in 
the  board-room  dispelled  that  feeling.  His  French  came 
back,  provoked  by  their  French ;  the  directors  were,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  charming  men  of  middle  age  or  early, 
ripe  old  age,  with  a  sense  of  humour  and  considerable 
experience  of  the  world  outside  France.  They  affected 
to  excuse  themselves  for  a  rapid  surrender  to  Mervyn's 


1896-1899  4°9 

charm  by  the  insinuation  that  "  somme  toute,  vous  etes 
Flamand,  Monsieur,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  " 

But  Mervyn  would  have  none  of  that.  "  I  won't 
swear  my  family,  like  a  thousand  others  in  England, 
may  not  have  come,  centuries  ago,  from  Belgium  or 
from  France,  but  otherwise  I  am  thoroughly  English. 
It  pleases  my  mother — and  hurts  no  one  else — that  she 
should  spell  her  name  as  if  it  were  Flemish;  and  for 
reasons  of  strong  affection  for  France  she  chooses  to 
reside  in  Pau,  as  do  so  many  other  English  women.  / 
had  the  advantage  of  living  in  France  till  I  was  eight- 
een, and  I  shall  always  love  your  country  almost 
equally  with  my  own.  But  if  you  want  la  verite  vraie, 
I  am  English  on  both  sides." 

His  eye  glittered  a  little  as  he  said  this;  but  they 
then  passed  to  business,  and  he  showed  himself  so  apt 
in  suggestion,  so  amusing  in  diction  that  they  accepted 
him  as  a  friend  as  well  as  a  colleague.  After  all,  he 
was  undoubtedly  the  brother  of  that  most  charming 
lady,  Madame  Dudeffrand,  with  whom  they  one  and 
all  professed  themselves  still  in  love. 

These  French  plantations  were  doing  well,  paying  an 
annual  dividend  round  about  eight  per  cent.  So  huge 
was  becoming  the  demand  for  their  medicines  in 
France  and  the  enormous  French  possessions  in  Africa 
and  Indo-China,  that  the  produce  of  the  gardens — 
seeds,  leaves,  roots,  bark,  sap — was  manufactured  by 
the  company  itself  into  tablets,  pillules,  liqueurs,  pow- 
ders, at  factories  on  the  Agly  River  near  Perpignan. 
Thence  the  products  could  be  sent  for  shipment  to  Port 
Vendres  or  to  Marseille. 

Mervyn,  after  a  month  of  inspection  of  all  the  de- 
velopments which  had  taken  place  in  plantations  and 
manufactories,  said — not  good-bye,  a  word  he  hated 
with  those  whom  he  liked,  but — "  to  the  seeing  again," 
"  au  revoir  "  to  mother  and  sister,  to  Gaston  his  guide 


410  THE  VENEERINGS 

(his  brother,  he  really  felt) ;  to  Sophie  de  Lamelle — 
now  just  a  little  tremulous  where  her  affections  were 
concerned;  to  Georgy,  to  Lancelot,  and  to  Jeanne's 
children;  and  transferred  himself  to  Bayonne  to  spend 
part  of  the  day  with  the  bishop  of  that  place,  partly  to 
see  if  it  were  the  same  bishop,  and  if  so,  to  thank  him 
for  what  had  been  done  for  Lancelot. 

It  was  the  same  bishop,  and  he  did  not  look  very 
different  after  four  years,  nor  was  he  any  less  suave. 
His  wit  played  with  gentle  malice  round  the  unbeliever. 
"  Si  je  vous  reconnais !  "  he  exclaimed,  "vous  n'etes 
pas  de  ceux  qu'on  oublie  facilement  ni  volontairement ! 
And  your  brother?  You  are  content  with  what  we 
have  done  for  him?  " 

"  So  content,  indeed,  that  I  felt  I  could  not  leave 
France  without  calling  to  thank  you,  Monseigneur." 

"  That  is  charmingly  said.  Your  brother  has  quali- 
ties, has  learning,  mais  il  n'est  pas  de  votre  pate.  He 
has  not  your  charm.  However,  I  hope  he  will  be  con- 
tent to  follow  the  much  safer  road  I  have  indicated  to 
him.  What  a  pity  you  are  English  and  a  heretic,  or 
even  worse  than  a  mere  heretic  ...  an  absolute  un- 
believer, I  fear.  However — I  expect  le  bon  Dieu 
knows  what  he  is  doing;  he  has  marked  out  some  path 
for  you  to  follow.  .  .  .  You  will  stay  and  breakfast 
with  us,  is  not  that  so?  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
Africa." 

About  five  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Mervyn,  having 
left  the  bishop's  palace  and  crossed  the  Nive,  and  after 
that  the  broad  Adour  in  the  bishop's  magnificent  but 
old-fashioned  carriage,  had  himself  put  down  outside 
the  Gare  du  Midi.  Then  and  there,  before  committing 
himself  to  a  through  ticket  to  Paris  and  London,  he 
decided  first  to  walk  along  the  quays  and  look  at  the 
shipping.  Among  the  vessels  was  an  English  steamer 
of  not  much  more  than  a  thousand  tons,  one  of  a  line 


1896-1899  411 

that  plied  up  and  down  the  west  coast  of  France  to  San 
Sebastian  in  Spain,  and  thence,  on  the  return,  to 
Plymouth  and  London.  Its  second  officer,  with  a  blunt 
but  comely  English  face,  was  arguing  on  the  quay  with 
some  Basque  sailors.  His  French  was  appalling  and 
beyond  their  comprehension.  Mervyn,  without  imper- 
tinence, drew  near  and  listened,  and  finally  ventured  an 
explanation  of  his  meaning  which  both  sides  took  in 
the  best  humour.  The  Basques,  satisfied,  strolled 
away;  the  mate  hesitated,  then  said — he  did  not  quite 
know  why — "  Like  to  look  over  the  ship,  sir?  "  Mer- 
vyn said  he  would — there  were  still  two  hours  of  day- 
light ahead.  The  vessel  did  not  bother  much  about 
passengers — took  six  first-class,  in  cabins  which  were 
spotlessly  clean,  if  not  spacious.  "  You  take  a  week  to 
reach  Plymouth,  calling  at  Bordeaux,  La  Rochelle,  and 
Nantes  ?  How  much  is  it,  first-class  ?  Three  pounds  ? 
I'll  come  with  you  if  you  are  starting  to-morrow." 

He  did  not  regret  the  adventure.  There  were  no 
other  passengers,  at  any  rate  in  the  first-class,  the  three 
officers  were  of  that  truly  excellent  breed  of  the  sea- 
faring middle  class  which  we,  more  than  any  other 
nation,  seem  to  generate;  they  would  never  be  able  to 
speak  intelligibly  any  language  but  English,  yet  they 
might,  by  the  age  of  twenty-five,  have  steamed  through 
all  navigable  seas,  have  visited  the  coasts  of  New 
Guinea  or  Alaska,  East  Africa,  and  Patagonia,  have 
picked  up  masses  of  the  most  interesting  information 
which,  if  not  elicited  by  a  sympathetic  questioner, 
would  die  with  them;  they  smoked  in  moderation, 
drank  of  alcohol  even  more  moderately,  had  good 
teeth,  good  digestions,  merry  laughs,  married  early, 
and  were  good  husbands.  His  week's  voyage  with 
them  taught  him  a  lot  that  was  worth  knowing;  they, 
on  their  part,  learnt  a  good  deal  from  Mervyn.  From 
this  voyage  there  germinated  a  scheme  which  went  far 
to  influence  the  policy  of  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co. 


412  THE  VENEERINGS 

— the  concentration  of  much  of  their  drug  manufacture 
in  Devonshire,  near  Plymouth;  the  cultivation  of  drug 
plants  in  the  Pyrenees  under  the  French  company; 
English  steamers  from  Bayonne  to  Plymouth  convey- 
ing the  produce  of  the  Pyrenean  plantations  to  be 
manufactured  in  England  and  exported  all  over  the 
world.  There  would  have  to  be  other  plantations  of 
drug-plants  in  India,  Africa,  and  tropical  America  for 
such  things  as  wanted  hotter  sunshine  than  they  could 
get  in  the  Pyrenees  and  absolutely  no  lower  winter 
temperature  than  fifty-five  degrees,  not  even  a  near 
approach  to  a  frost.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  plants 
required  for  medicine  could  be  grown  at  the  base  or  on 
the  lower  slopes  of  this  chain  of  mountains  separating 
France  and  Spain,  and  the  water  journey  between  this 
region  and  Devonshire  was  trivial  compared  with  the 
thousands  of  miles  which  separated  manufacturing 
England  from  any  part  of  the  tropics. 

Mervyn's  realisation  of  this  need  for  a  close  co- 
operation in  the  production  of  world-healing  vege- 
table drugs  between  south-western  France  and  western 
England  was  quickly  shared  by  John  Harmon.  The 
expensive  railway  transport  of  drug  materials  between 
the  Pyrenees,  Calais,  and  London  was  given  up  in 
favour  of  the  sea-route  between  Bayonne  and  Plym- 
outh. It  was  decided,  when  a  favourable  opportunity 
offered,  that  the  offices  and  show-rooms  of  Mincing 
Lane  should  be  given  up  in  favour  of  offices  and  show- 
rooms in  Wigmore  Street.  No.  38,  Mincing  Lane  had 
become  so  valuable  for  other  purposes  that  a  consider- 
able profit  should  result  from  its  sale,  and  the  transfer 
of  the  company's  London  activities  westward;  enough, 
almost,  to  cover  the  cost  of  the  transference  or  crea- 
tion of  factories  in  the  vicinity  of  Plymouth. 

By  October,  1896,  Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  were  estab- 
lished in  Wigmore  Street  with  Hetty.  Hetty  was  get- 


1896-1899 

ting  on  for  seven,  but  now  that  she  had  two  baby 
brothers  she  did  not  feel  quite  so  grown  up — with  the 
elder  of  them  she  was  even  inclined  to  romp.  Un- 
gratefully enough,  she  did  not  now  miss  Chacely  as 
she  ought  to  have  done.  She  enjoyed  Hyde  Park,  its 
water  and  swans,  its  horses,  extraordinary  people,  sol- 
diers, and  boats  rather  more  than  she  had  appreciated 
the  woods  and  fens,  gardens,  and  hothouses  of 
Chacely.  There  was  the  excitement  of  crossing  Ox- 
ford Street,  there  were  the  shops  of  Regent  Street  and 
Bond  Street.  The  most  vivid  of  all  her  desires  at  this 
period,  and  one  easily  and  economically  satisfied,  was 
to  ride  on  the  outside  of  the  smart  new  omnibuses. 
There  was  the  thrill  of  making  purchases  at  the  Army 
and  Navy  Stores,  and  the  delight — inexpressible  in 
language  at  her  command — of  taking  tea  or  lunch  with 
Mrs.  Cochrane  at  her  delightful  flat  in  Buckingham 
Street.  In  fine  weather  they  had  their  tea  on  a  balcony 
which  overlooked  the  river. 

Miriam,  after  her  marriage,  had  undergone  a  spell 
of  disenchantment  with  the  stage  and  with  great  cities. 
She  had  preferred  an  ideally  quiet  home  in  the  south- 
west of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  not  far  from  the  wild  coast 
and  its  pinnacles  and  crags  of  chalk,  its  coastguard 
stations,  and  its  sights  of  ships,  large  and  small,  passing 
on  tiny  trips  across  the  Solent  or  on  solemn  voyages  of 
thousands  of  miles.  But  after  the  birth  of  her  baby 
girl,  Myra — a  name  without  purport  other  than  that  it 
shared  her  initial — and  partly  in  view  of  Victor's  de- 
termination to  get  into  the  House  of  Commons  for  an 
Isle  of  Wight  constituency,  she  consented  to  a  home  in 
London  for  part  of  the  year. 

In  her  sentimental  moods,  she  reverted  in  thought  to 
her  first  days  of  struggle  and  the  vivid  life  she  led  at 
the  last  house  in  Villiers  Street  .  .  .  Mervyn  .  .  . 
Harry  Sanders  .  .  .  Emilio  Ratti  .  .  .  Edith  Pallard 
.  .  .  Lewis  Henslake — theatre  jabber  and  excitement, 


414  THE  VENEERINGS 

tears  at  disappointments,  glowing  cheeks  when  great 
successes  came — the  mystery  of  countrylike  simplicity 
in  these  garden  nooks  round  the  Water  Porch,  the  pop- 
lars, aspens,  sycamores,  sumaches,  and  planes;  the 
ruffianism  in  the  tunnels  below  Adelphi  Terrace,  modi- 
fied by  police  protection  for  all  respectable  and  well- 
dressed  persons ;  the  river  night  and  day,  the  steamers, 
the  distant  factories  of  the  Surrey  side,  the  smug 
affluence  of  Adelphi  Terrace.  .  .  .  Villiers  Street,  of 
course,  was  too  noisy,  too  public,  too  rowdy.  But  Buck- 
ingham Street — the  house  where  Samuel  Pepys  and 
Robert  Harley,  Earl  of  Oxford,  had  lived.  .  .  . 

She  made  inquiries  from  old  acquaintances;  she 
watched  her  opportunity ;  and  at  length,  after  a  year's 
waiting,  secured  the  first  and  second  floors  of  this 
house  on  the  river  side  of  Buckingham  Street.  It 
joined  the  wall  of  the  last  house  in  Villiers  Street  in 
which  she  had  formerly  lodged,  arid  overlooked  the 
Embankment  Gardens  .  .  .  overlooked  them  inti- 
mately. The  river  coursed  east  and  west,  according  to 
the  tides,  beyond  the  tree  growth  and  the  gardens. 
Their  bedroom  and  sitting-room  looked  out  over  the 
Embankment  and  the  river.  In  addition,  they  had  a 
dressing-room  for  Victor,  a  bathroom,  and  a  small 
dining-room.  On  the  floor  above  there  were  rooms 
which  could  be  turned  into  a  large  day-nursery,  sleep- 
ing accommodation  for  the  nurse  and  the  child,  a  bath- 
room and  a  housemaid's  bedroom.  Cochrane's  man- 
servant attended  daily,  arid  did  much  of  the  waiting. 
The  ground  floor  was  let  as  a  solicitor's  offices.  The 
"  people  of  the  house  "  were  a  retired  sergeant-major, 
his  wife,  who  did  the  cooking,  his  two  daughters,  and 
two  general  servants.  They  had  the  topmost  floor  and 
the  basement,  which,  though  below  the  level  of  Buck- 
ingham Street,  was  above  that  of  the  gardens. 

To  Victor,  this  accommodation,  at  any  rate  for  the 
present,  was  quite  convenient.  They  entertained,  when 


1896-1899 

they  had  to  do  so,  at  the  restaurants  most  in  vogue,  or 
he  gave  dinners  at  his  club.  Buckingham  Street  was 
near  Waterloo — for  the  Isle  of  Wight — and  near  the 
House  of  Commons  which  he  yearned  to  enter,  and 
St.  Stephen's  Club,  to  which  he  had  already  been 
elected,  and  the  theatres,  which  he  visited  with  the  eye 
of  a  connoisseur  and  as  a  friend  of  all  the  managers. 

Miriam  knew  that  one  reason  for  the  attractiveness 
of  Buckingham  Street  was  not  only  the  presence  hard 
by  of  the  Joseph  Pennells  and  the  Bernard  Shaws,  who 
were  friends  of  hers,  but  the  associations  of  the  early 
'eighties  with  Mervyn.  Their  rooms  virtually  abutted 
on  No.  19,  Villiers  Street,  though  that  building  had 
been  considerably  changed  since  the  departure  of  the 
Fairbairns.  She  had,  from  her  bedroom,  nearly  the 
same  "  look-out  "  as  from  the  bedroom  of  those  days 
of  struggle,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  comradeship 
with  this  handsome  boy  lent  a  tenderness  to  her  recol- 
lections, and  a  spice,  a  merriment  now  to  the  welcom- 
ing of  his  child  and  wife  when  they  came  to  call. 

Elizabeth,  so  far — the  late  autumn  of  1896 — had  not 
suffered  much  from  ostracism  or  social  exclusion.  Her 
servants  mostly  came  to  her  from  the  Chacely  neigh- 
bourhood, where  nothing — not  even  polygamy — could 
have  affected  the  good  name  of  the  Harmons.  Chacely, 
indeed,  had  always  rather  isolated  itself  in  Gloucester- 
shire society,  and  knew  very  little  of  its  neighbours, 
save  at  Deerhurst.  The  theatrical  world,  with  such 
an  introducer  as  Miriam,  welcomed  such  persons  as 
Mervyn  and  Elizabeth  solely  on  the  ground  of  their 
being  witty,  amusing,  discerning.  It  would  have  re- 
ceived them  with  glassy  indifference  had  they  been 
merely  commended  as  respectable  and  law-abiding; 
and  with  good-humoured  contempt  and  tolerance  if 
they  were  nothing  more  than  wealthy.  City  people 
were  quite  willing  to  know  them  in  opulent  suburbs 
or  Surrey  country  houses;  but  the  City,  except  on  its 


416  THE  VENEERINGS 

supreme  Jewish  or  German  summits,  was  dull,  even 
though  brightly  coloured. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  be  made  to  wince  here  and 
there,"  said  Elizabeth,  discussing  her  fate  with  Miriam 
one  day,  in  the  approach  to  Christmas,  '96.  Miriam 
was  preparing  to  leave  for  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Christ- 
mas and  London  fogs,  Myra's  health,  and  the  prox- 
imity of  a  bye-election  might  make  a  long  stay  in  the 
Island  altogether  necessary. 

"  But,  curiously  enough,  very  little  that  is  really 
disagreeable  has  happened.  I  never,  of  course,  cared 
very  much  for  my  Aunt  Lavinia ;  in  fact,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  realise  that  she  was  mother's  sister.  ...  I  have 
still  a  very  improper  aunt  .  .  .  did  you  ever  know? 
She  went  on  the  stage  .  .  .  Aunt  Susan.  At  least, 
she  had  a  variegated  early  life  and  married  three  times. 
But  she  afterwards  became  so  successful  on  the  stage." 

"My  dear!  ...  I  know  all  about  her  .  .  .  far 
more  than  you  do.  Your  husband  interceded  for  her 
far  back  in  the  'eighties,  and  I  gave  her  a  helping  hand. 
She  was  so  droll  she  became  one  of  the  successes  of 
my  company.  She  is  a  sort  of  '  succes  de  curiosite ' 
nowadays,  a  bit  of  Roquefort  cheese.  I  believe  she's 
acting  still,  though  she's  quite  comfortably  off.  .  .  . 
But  about  what  you  call  your  Aunt  Lavvy " 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Sampson.  She  lives  at  Fulham.  Her 
husband,  a  worthy  creature,  is  one  of  our  managers. 
Well,  she  has  intimated  that,  after  giving  the  subject 
due  consideration,  she  thinks,  while  her  girls  are  still 
young,  I  had  better  not  come  and  see  her.  So  I  am 
relieved  of  the  need  for  bicycling  to  Fulham.  Do  you 
bicycle,  by  the  bye?  " 

"  No;  I  don't.  I  tried  privily,  so  to  speak,  at  Shal- 
combe;  but  fell  off,  sprained  my  wrist,  and  decided  I 
wouldn't  bother  about  it.  I'm  getting  a  little  bulky 
for  such  sprightliness.  So's  Victor.  We're  going  to 
wait  and  see  how  these  motor  things  develop;  and  if 


1896-1899  417 

they  seem  all  right,  buy  ourselves  something  of  that 
kind  we  can  drive.  Of  course,  Victor  just  now  can 
think  of  nothing  but  getting  into  Parliament,  and  I 
can't  think  of  much  else  but  Myra — and  you  .  .  .  and 
Mervyn.  Well:  I  must  be  off.  When  you  have  got 
over  your  Christmas  stay  at  Chacely  you  must  come 
and  see  me  at  Shalcombe.  You  could  bring  your 
family  and  they  could  play  with  Myra.  We've  heaps 
of  room !  " 

In  the  early  part  of  the  Jubilee  year,  1897,  Madison 
having  returned  from  his  visit  to  America,  Harmon 
decided  to  discuss  with  him  and  Mervyn  important 
questions  regarding  the  future  work  of  the  firm.  He 
laid  before  them  a  sound  offer  for  the  Mincing  Lane 
premises,  and  advised  its  acceptance.  The  price  offered 
would  enable  them  to  purchase,  or,  at  any  rate,  secure 
on  very  long  leases,  the  two  houses  in  Wigmore  Street 
next  to  No.  i.  These  could  be  adapted  to  be  museums, 
show-rooms,  and  business  premises  for  the  firm  in 
London,  the  London  office.  No.  I  might  remain  with 
some  alterations  and  improvement  the  town  residence 
of  the  family,  at  present  to  be  shared  by  Mervyn  and 
Madison  and  their  respective  families  .  .  .  the  chil- 
dren of  these  families  would  spend  much  of  the  year 
with  their  grandparents  at  Chacely,  and  their  parents 
be  down  there  whenever  they  had  the  time.  George 
Sampson  and  Ambrose  Milvey  should  be  raised  to  full 
partnership;  the  former  should  reside  ordinarily  at 
Plymouth,  where  Harmon  proposed  the  creation  of 
extensive  factories  to  deal  with  the  drug  material 
imported  from  France  and  from  all  over  the  world. 

"  I  have  concluded  a  provisional  agreement  with 
our  sister  company  in  the  Pyrenees,  which  Mervyn  has 
negotiated  and  which  I  am  now  going  to  ask  you  to 
confirm.  They  will  send  us  at  least  half  their  material, 
which  we  shall  deal  with  chemically  and  transmute  into 


418  THE  VENEERINGS 

the  finished  medicine.  Ambrose  knows  a  great  deal 
about  the  chemical  and  manufacturing  side,  and  al- 
though, for  the  present,  he  will  live  ordinarily  in 
Chacely  village  and  look  after  our  business  in  the 
gardens,  he  will  be  able,  by  the  improved  railway  serv- 
ice, to  run  over  easily  to  Plymouth  and  keep  his  eye 
on  our  export  business  and  our  manufactures,  in 
conjunction  with  Sampson.  I  shall  become  a  sleeping 
partner  altogether,  retire  from  any  more  work — if  I 
am  alive — in  1901.  Mervyn  will  then  become  the  head 
of  the  firm,  and  you  will  be  next  in  seniority,  Madison. 
Sampson  and  Milvey  will  receive  twelve  hundred  a 
year  each  as  director's  fees,  plus  various  living  expenses 
and  allowances,  bringing  their  annual  income  up  to  two 
thousand  pounds.  Sampson  has  worked  long  enough 
to  have  earned  this ;  Milvey  merits  it  by  his  extraordi- 
nary ability.  There  remains  the  question  of  India, 
where  our  business  is  enormous  but  where  we  want  a 
clear-headed  report  to  enable  us  to  decide  on  further 
developments  and  a  better  control.  I  am  proposing  we 
send  out  there,  within  a  month,  Fletcher  Sampson. 
He  is  a  very  clever  young  man.  .  .  .  My  chief  objec- 
tions to  him,  if  I  were  asked  to  criticise,  would  be  his 
manner  of  speaking  and  his  facial  appearance.  He  is 
so  perky  and  so  self-assured.  I  have  never  much  liked 
his  mother,  but  his  father  has  been  a  truly  faithful  and 
unassuming  servant  of  our  firm,  and  has  thoroughly 
deserved  his  partnership.  India  may  do  a  lot  of  good 
to  Fletcher.  Two  years'  experience  there  may  qualify 
him  to  become  our  Indian  partner.  Now,  there's  one 
other  question  I  propose  to  touch  on  before  we  go  west 
to  lunch,  and  that  is  Rubber.  The  City  is  going  mad 
about  rubber  owing  to  the  enormous  demand  for  the 
manufacture  of  tyres.  Well,  as  a  firm,  we  know  a  lot 
about  rubber.  I  knew  it,  Mervyn  knew  it,  Madison's 
people  knew  it  years  ago.  The  great  sources  of  rub- 
ber in  the  future  are  going  to  be  cultivated  forms ;  the 


1896-1899  4*9 

wild  rubber  will  soon  be  exhausted.  The  best  of  all 
the  rubbers  will  be  Hevea  of  Brazil,  and  you  mark  my 
words,  they'll  try  to  plant  that  everywhere  in  the  well- 
watered  tropics.  Gigantic  fortunes  will  be  made  and 
gigantic  failures  will  occur.  Well,  my  two  dear  sons- 
in-law,  I  vote  we  don't  touch  it.  When  I  restarted  this 
firm  I  did  so  quite  half  with  a  philanthropic  motive, 
and  I  think  philanthropy  entered  nearly  as  much  into 
the  projects  of  Madison's  father  and  grandfather." 

Victor  Cochrane  was  elected  as  a  Liberal  Unionist 
for  the  Isle  of  Wight  constituency  to  which  I  have 
alluded  in  April,  1897,  at  a  cost  of  five  thousand 
pounds.  Many  people  said  it  was  cheap,  considering, 
in  the  Jubilee  Year  and  in  time  to  participate  in  the 
celebrations  as  a  Member  of  Parliament. 

Elizabeth  had  another  son  in  the  autumn  of  1897, 
and  a  daughter  in  April,  1899.  During  these  years 
she  found  that  a  few  people  whom  she  disliked  and 
did  not  wish  to  know  were  very  disagreeable  about  her 
"  colonial  "  marriage  and  infraction  of  the  mysterious 
inhibition  of  the  Deceased  Wife's  Sister.  But  nobody 
she  liked  or  wished  to  know  cared  two  straws,  showed 
any  concern,  or  expressed  any  disapproval. 

Lavvy  Sampson  was  rather  startled  and  upset  when 
she  learnt  in  March,  1897,  that  they  were  to  move 
down  to  Plymouth,  and  was  disposed  to  nag  at  George 
for  having  so  humbly  fallen  in  with  the  project,  with- 
out consulting  her,  and  just  after  they  had  got  to  know 
the  new  Bishop  of  London.  But  George  for  once 
withstood  her.  "  Two  thousand  a  year  and  a  Devon- 
shire climate  are  better  than  twelve  hundred  and  the 
fogs  of  Fulham  .  .  .  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it,  my 
dear."  And  her  four  daughters  and  clergyman  son 
were  all,  for  one  reason  and  another,  in  favour  of  the 
move.  Fletcher  was  cock-a-hoop  over  the  Indian  jour- 
ney and  the  hint  at  a  future  partnership.  You  must 


420  THE  VENEERINGS 

remember  that  incomes  of  twelve  hundred  to  two  thou- 
sand were  worth  having  in  those  days,  when  the  cost 
of  living  comfortably  was  half  what  it  is  now.  So 
Lavvy  was  silenced  and  fades  from  my  story,  though 
I  believe  she  lived  to  a  very  considerable  age — may  not 
even  be  dead  yet. 

Reggie  Harmon  eventually  dispensed  with  a  nurse  or 
special  attendant,  and  Miss  Grafenstein  married  a 
German  pastor  and  settled  somewhere  near  Hannover, 
and  was  quite  happy  (with  occasional  visits  to  Bella 
at  Chacely)  till  the  abominable  war  broke  out.  Reggie, 
in  1898,  commenced  work  for  the  firm  at  the  Chacely 
hothouses  and  seed-beds,  which,  at  first  taken  up 
peevishly,  became,  in  course  of  time,  intensely  inter- 
esting, though  it  had  to  be  limited  by  his  inability  to 
do  much  standing  or  stooping.  John  junior  only  came 
to  Chacely  twice  a  year,  lived  the  rest  of  the  time  at 
Oxford,  and  wrote  fleshly  poems  and  macabre  plays. 
Canon  Milvey  continued  to  sorrow  very  much  over 
Elizabeth  and  Mervyn  down  to  the  spring  of  1898. 
Then  he  had  just  a  slight  stroke,  which  was  never 
called  a  stroke  by  any  one  connected  with  the  family — 
possibly  a  touch  of  influenza  or  facial  rheumatism. 
But  it  drew  to  his  side  his  second  son,  who  became 
his  curate  and  factotum.  John  Harmon  had  intimated 
to  the  latter  that  so  soon  as  arrangements  could  be 
made  for  the  retirement  of  the  dear  old  man — who 
after  his  illness  ceased  to  worry  over  the  question  of 
the  Deceased  Wife's  Sister,  and  resumed  his  collection 
of  Gloucestershire  fungi — he  would  present  him  with 
the  living. 

And  when  the  twentieth  century  opened  with  the 
death  of  Queen  Victoria,  John  Harmon,  retired  from 
Parliament,  became  a  sleeping  partner  in  the  firm. 
He  had  been  knighted  in  1900  for  his  great  services 
to  Medicine — to  Humanity,  the  old  Lord  Wiltshire 
said ;  and  the  Press,  not  really  knowing  very  much  about 


1896-1899  421 

the  subject,  mildly  approved.  A  peerage  was  given, 
at  the  same  time,  to  a  Tulse  Hill  gentleman  who  had 
made  a  million  on  the  Stock  Exchange  out  of  the 
South  African  war  and  had  given  seventy  thousand 
pounds  to  a  soldiers'  hospital;  and  a  baronetcy  to  a 
Yorkshire  squire,  who  had  raced  at  Doncaster  for 
twenty  years  and  never  given  anything  appreciable 
to  any  good  cause,  but  had  withdrawn  from  his 
seat  to  let  an  unfortunate  seatless  Minister  re-enter 
Parliament. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE   TWENTIETH    CENTURY 

IT  was  the  first  of  January,  of  the  first  year — 1901 — 
of  the  twentieth  century.  The  Christmas  festivities 
at  Chacely  had  been  a  little  shortened,  and  Sir  John 
Harmon  had  come  up  to  town  with  Mervyn  and  spent 
a  night  or  two  at  No.  i,  Wigmore  Street,  before 
meeting  the  other  directors  of  Harmon,  Veneering  and 
Co.  in  the  new  board-room  of  No.  3.  He  had  called 
a  special  assembly  of  the  directorate  at  eleven  o'clock. 
They  had  breakfasted  together  at  No.  i  and  then  had 
adjourned  to  their  company's  office  next  door.  There 
were  no  other  persons  present  than  the  five  directors. 
"  The  main  reason  for  this  special  meeting  of  to-day 
is  an  open  secret,"  said  Sir  John,  taking  the  chair. 
"  I  have  called  you  together,  dear  friends,  to  take  leave 
of  you  as  chairman.  I  retire  to-day  from  active  man- 
agement in  this  firm.  I  had  intended  to  take  this  step 
more  or  less  on  my  seventieth  birthday  which  still  lies 
nine  months  ahead;  but  as  I  want  to  go  away  for  a 
spell  to  warmer  countries,  and  as  a  new  century  begins 
to-day,  I  thought  I  would  take  the  step  now.  You 
know  all  the  circumstances,  so  it  is  little  else  than  a 
pleasant  formality  I  am  fulfilling.  When  it  is  done  with 
I  shall  have  become  a  sleeping  partner  in  Harmon, 
Veneering  and  Co.  .  .  .  You  are  all  so  near  and  dear 
to  me  that  I  can  call  you  by  your  Christian  names.  .  .  . 
I  have  always  hated  anything  that  seemed  stagey ;  but 
I  should  like  at  this  moment  to  say  '  thank  you,  one 
and  all.'  .  .  .  No  man  ever  worked  with  better  part- 

422 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  423 

ners.  Mervyn,  will  you  jot  down  essentials  as  we're 
doing  without  a  secretary?  Just  something  formal  to 
enter  in  our  books?  .  .  .  Well,  then,  you  others,  you 
realise  that  Mervyn  Veneering  succeeds  me  as  chair- 
man and  senior  partner ;  Madison  stands  next  to  him ; 
then  comes  George,  and  lastly  in  seniority,  Ambrose. 
I  stress  the  point  about  seniority,  because  I  am  hoping 
Reggie,  my  son,  will  be  able — if  you  are  all  agreed  in 
wishing  to  have  him — to  join  this  board  as  its — what's 
the  superlative  of  '  junior  '  ?  Don't  think  there  was 
one !  I  mean  its  youngest,  most  juvenile  partner.  His 
health  has  of  late  greatly  improved,  and  though  he  may 
not  be  able  to  stand  much  of  London  life — long  train 
journeys  upset  him,  jar  him — he  now  takes  an  extraor- 
dinary interest  in  our  Chacely  greenhouses  and  gar- 
dens, and  the  cultivation  of  drugs  on  English  soil. 
Of  course,  if  he  were  well  enough  to  do  some  of  the 
supervision  work  at  Chacely,  that  might  release 
Ambrose  for  joint  work  at  Plymouth  with  George. 

"  You  will  see,  by  the  bye,  in  my  two  or  three  written 
proposals  for  discussion  at  the  next  board  meeting, 
that  I  have  suggested  a  gift  of  five  hundred  pounds 
to  our  colleague,  Ambrose  Milvey,  as  some  return  for 
the  splendid  work  he  did  for  our  firm  during  his  1900 
service  with  the  forces  in  South  Africa.  Much  as  we 
have  all  regretted  this  South  African  war  we  must 
admit  it  has  given  an  enormous  expansion  to  our  busi- 
ness. I  reckon,  when  our  accounts  are  all  made  up 
for  1900,  we  shall  have  made  a  profit  on  our  medicines 
ordered  by  the  War  Office  for  this  war,  of  over  one 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  And  that,  mind  you,  not 
out  of  fleecing  the  Government,  as  other  purveyors 
have  done,  but  just  an  honest  return  for  our  labours 
and  experiments,  in  four  continents  since  the  end  of 
the  'sixties.  .  .  .  Now  I  have  said  enough — I  think — 
enough  for  business.  But,  of  course,  if  any  of  you 
chaps  want  to  ask  questions  and  go  further  into 


424  THE  VENEERINGS 

details  .  .  .  ?  I  only  came  into  this  room  from  the 
other  house  for  the  formality  of  resigning  my  position 
and  installing  Mervyn  in  my  place.  .  .  .  I've  a  horror 
of  votes  of  thanks.  Please,  please,  don't  propose 
any.  ...  If  Mervyn's  finished  his  shorthand  notes — 
do  you  know  that  chap  had  actually  learnt  shorthand 
by  the  time  he  was  eighteen?  Isn't  he  a  marvel?  / 
never  could  learn  it.  ...  Let's  leave  Mervyn  here  to 
finish  his  rescript  and  see  it  properly  typed  in  long- 
hand. Then,  later  on,  we  can  have  it  entered  in  the 
books  and  sign  it.  Now  then,  let's  get  back  to  No.  I. 
I'm  host  for  the  rest  of  the  day — at  least  till  I  depart 
for  Chacely.  I'm  going  down — all  the  way — in  our 
new  motor.  Quite  an  adventure!  Hundred  and 
thirty-five  miles,  or  something  like  it — fortunately 
there's  a  moon.  I'm  taking  George  to  Paddington  for 
Plymouth.  He  catches  the  three  o'clock  train.  So 
we've  got  from  now  to  two-forty  to  enjoy  ourselves. 
I  thought  we'd  take  a  run  up  to  the  Zoo  while  Mervyn 
does  business,  and  start  lunch  at  a  quarter  to  one.  .  .  . 
God  bless  you,  dear  old  chaps!  Good-bye  as  chair- 
man! Don't  say  one  word — or — or — you'll  upset 
me " 

They  motored  to  the  Zoo.  It  was  very  cold  there, 
but  the  brisk  east  wind  dissipated  any  outward  expres- 
sion of  sentimentality  which  was  always  John  Har- 
mon's dislike.  The  wind  gave  them  red  noses  and 
blistered  eyes  and  purplish  complexions,  but  sharpened 
their  appetites ;  and  they  returned  blithely  to  Wigmore 
Street  and  proceeded  to  sit  down  to  one  of  the  best 
luncheons,  in  quality,  given  that  day  in  London. 

"  Hul/0,  Mr.  Slopey,  you  here?"  said  Harmon, 
glancing  round  the  dining-room  as  he  entered. 

"  Yes,  Sir  John.  It  was  pretty  generally  known  in 
the  office  why  you  was  up  here,  from  Chacely,  and  I 
came  along  yesterday  and  saw  Mr.  Mervyn's  cook  and 
man-servant,  and  they  both  saw  the  point,  and  says 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  425 

they  was  quite  willin'  I  should  come  and  wait  on  you 
all.  .  .  .  Let's  hope  not  for  the  last  time " 

"  Shake !  "  said  Harmon,  shooting  out  his  right  hand. 
And  the  ex-chairman  of  the  great  drug  company  and 
the  great  hall  porter  of  his  office — now  pensioned  and 
only  an  occasional  visitor — wrung  each  other's  right 
hand  before  the  former  sat  down  at  the  head  of  the 
table  and  the  latter  applied  himself  to  the  service  of 
the  first  dish.  Harmon's  eyes  sparkled  for  a  minute 
or  two  with  unshed  tears.  He  looked  up  half  shyly  at 
his  partners  entering  the  room.  [The  women  and 
children  of  the  joint  household  were  still  at  Chacely, 
and  there  were  only  the  five  directors  at  the  luncheon, 
two  on  each  side  of  the  presiding  host.  .  .  .]  "  'Gad, 
d'you  realise  we've  got  dear  old  Slopey  as  head-waiter 
to-day?  Here!"  (to  footman),  "James!  Give  us 
all  some  wine.  .  .  .  Sherry  is  best.  .  .  .  And  before 
we  start  on  the  oysters,  we'll  all  drink  Slopey's  health 
and  long  life.  I  just  realise  I've  known  him  close  on 
forty  years." 

Then  the  luncheon  proceeded.  They  had  oysters 
from  Colchester,  brown  bread-and-butter  and  a  glass 
of  Chablis;  soles,  quite  exceptional  soles  a  ITmpera- 
trice  Eugenie,  served  with  a  glass  of  unbrandied 
sherry,  specially  imported;  rump-steak  a  la  financiere 
(quite  small  pieces,  but  delicious),  accompanied  by 
laver  and  chip  potatoes;  then  roast  peacock,  from 
Chacely,  a  male  bird  of  the  second  year  (peacocks  are 
not  full-grown  till  they  are  four  years  old)  stuffed 
with  Dean  Forest  chestnuts.  [To  those  who  know  I 
need  hardly  say  that  just  as  the  peacock  surpasses  all 
other  game  birds  in  coloration,  so  in  texture  and 
flavour  of  flesh  it  is  the  last  word.]  After  this,  glasses 
of  mild  punch  were  handed  round.  Then  there  came 
rose-cream  ices.  The  flavouring,  candied  rose  petals 
were  from  the  attar-producing  variety,  and  like  the 
cream  (from  Jersey  cows),  came  from  Chacely. 


426  THE  VENEERINGS 

Lastly  there  were  blood  oranges — an  early  consignment 
from  Tunis — Mocha  coffee,  and  green  Chartreuse. 

The  servants  withdrew.  The  diners  smoked  Russian 
cigarettes.  Anything  so  gross  as  a  cigar  would  have  shat- 
tered the  harmony.  There  was  more  than  half  an  hour 
ahead  before  the  train-goers  need  think  of  starting. 

Some  one  spoke.  ..."  And  where  and  when  are 
you  beginning  your  holiday  ?  " 

"  Next  Wednesday,"  replied  Harmon,  "  we  start  for 
Paris,  spend  a  week  there,  if  it  isn't  too  cold  or  wet. 
Then  to  Pau;  and  see  Mer's  mother,  the  Lamelle  and 
Georgy,  and  Gaston  and  Jeanne.  And  while  mother 
stops  with  the  Lamelle — who  is  a  perfect  wonder  for 
eighty  years  of  age — and  may  live  to  ninety — as  I  hope 
you  all  will,  and  I  too,  with  the  aid  of  our  drugs,  well, 
then  I  shall  go  up  the  Gave  d'Aspe  with  Gaston  and 
look  at  all  the  plantations.  Afterwards  we  shall  go 
on — mother  and  I — to  Toulouse — Perpignan — Prades, 
and  see  the  eastern  section  of  the  French  company's 
grounds.  When  all  that's  done — pass  the  cigarettes — 
thanks! — we  shall  go  off  to  Marseille — beastly  place, 
but  I  know  the  Consul — and  finally  to  Monte  Carlo. 
At  Monte  we  shall  stay  and  gamble — and  watch  them 
gambling — great  fun,  and  go  to  concerts  and  the 
theatre  and  eat  meals  in  moderation  at  Giro's,  and  take 
little  trips  to  Mentone  and  Nice,  p'raps  even  to  Corsica, 
till  the  beginning  of  April.  THEN  we  shall  turn  our 
eyes  and  our  steps  towards  Chacely.  .  .  .  And  now, 
George,  we  must  put  our  wits  together — I  think  it's 
twenty  years  since  I  drank  so  much  wine ! — and  start 
for  Paddington — and  you  all  must  try  and  get  on 
without  me  till  after  Easter." 

Fruitless  attempts  were  made  in  1901  and  1902  to 
amend  the  law  in  regard  to  marriage  of  a  Deceased 
Wife's  Sister;  but  under  the  opposition  of  the  Brins- 
leys  and  their  clan  and  party  adherents,  the  House  of 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  427 

Commons  became  recalcitrant  to  the  reform  and 
showed  itself  again  more  circumscribed  and  less 
modern  than  the  House  of  Lords. 

Elizabeth  Veneering  refused  to  be  either  perturbed 
or  put  out.  "  We  are  legally  married  in  South  Africa, 
and,  indeed,  in  most  parts  of  the  British  Empire  outside 
this  dear,  old-fashioned  country.  If  the  marriage  were 
equally  legal  here,  and  Mervyn's  disposition  altered,  he 
could  still  leave  me  and  live  separately  and  break  my 
heart  if  he  chose.  The  law  can  no  longer  force  hus- 
bands and  wives  who  have  grown  to  hate  each  other 
to  live  together;  and  fortunately — also — it  can  no 
longer  use  force  to  prevent  men  and  women  who  love 
one  another  from  living  together.  Our  children  are 
embodiments  of  health  and  good  looks,  I  am  thankful 
to  say.  I  shan't  waste  a  penny  of  my  own  or  of  my 
husband's  money  trying  to  '  propagand  ' — what  is  the 
verb  ?  You  can't  say  trying  to  '  propagate '  in  that 
sense!  Mer  and  I  are  quite  happy  and  very  content 
not  to  be  able  to  know  Mrs.  Ogilvie- Smith  and  Lady 
Stepfield — who  have  announced  that  they  will  never 
call  on  us.  ...  I  can't  think  of  any  other  penalty 
imposed  on  us.  They  don't  refuse  to  admit  me  to  the 
theatres  or  the  Crystal  Palace.  ...  If  there  is  punish- 
ment going  on  these  occasions,  it  is  always  the  woman, 
not  the  man,  who  is  punished.  Of  course  I'm  left  out 
of  all  Court  and  public  invitations.  That  leaves  me 
placid,  because  I  have  so  much  to  do  with  the  children. 
.  .  .  We  have  both  made  our  wills,  so  if  we  both  die 
in  an  epidemic  or  a  railway  smash  the  dear  children 
are  all  right  for  the  little  we  have  to  leave " 

These  were  more  the  remarks  that  Elizabeth  in- 
tended to  make  if  any  one  like  Aunt  Lavvy  directly 
questioned  her  position.  But  I  am  not  aware  that  any 
one  did,  other  than  that  fearless  and  disagreeable  rela- 
tive; now — fortunately — completely  immersed  in  a 
struggle  for  position  and  respect  at  Plymouth. 


428  THE  VENEERINGS 

Both  Elizabeth  and  Mervyn  were  comfortably  off 
then — twenty  years  ago — and  I  dare  say  now  enjoy 
twice  the  income  they  did  then,  since  the  expenses  of 
living  have  doubled,  and  yet  they  are  living  in  the  same 
style.  Mervyn  had  invested  most  of  his  savings  since 
1887  in  the  company's  capital,  and  received  a  steady 
8  per  cent,  interest.  His  salary  and  his  percentage 
on  profits  after  he  became  chairman  in  1901  probably 
rose  to  something  like  £3,000  a  year.  Elizabeth's  and 
Hetty's  money  came  to  another  £600  annually.  The 
interest  on  Mervyn's  savings  must  have  brought  up 
their  annual  income  to  £4,000  a  year.  They  lived  at 
the  Wigmore  Street  house  without  paying  rent.  So 
that,  although  they  had  in  course  of  time  a  family  of 
six  children  (including  Hetty)  to  feed,  clothe,  educate, 
and  put  out  in  the  world,  servants  to  pay,  and  a  motor 
to  run,  they  just  managed  to  do  all  this  within  their 
means.  But  for  the  slur  on  Elizabeth  and  its  conse- 
quent economy  in  dinner,  dance,  and  Ascot  dresses, 
they  might  have  been  in  difficulties.  Proximity  to 
Cavendish  Square  in  those  days  laid  down  certain 
standards  of  costume  and  head-gear  with  which  you 
could  not  palter  without  damage  to  your  reputation. 
Inclination  in  the  trend  of  business  further  obliged 
them  to  become  fellows — singly  or  doubly — of  the 
Zoological,  Royal  Botanical,  Linnaean  and  Royal  Geo- 
graphical Societies.  The  contributions  they  were  ex- 
pected to  make  to  charities  were  not  in  the  least  affected 
by  the  illegality  in  England  of  Elizabeth's  marriage. 
In  the  respect  of  a  giver  to  Queen  Charlotte's  Lying-in 
Hospital,  to  the  Bayswater  Bacterial  Institute,  the 
Marylebone  Prosectorium,  the  Great  Portland  Street 
curative  institutions,  the  Kew  Cottage  Hospital  for 
gardeners,  she  was  recognized  in  the  receipts  as  "  Mrs. 
Veneering." 

However,  though  much  was  expected  of  them  as 
donors — and  those  who  did  not  require  their  help  were 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  429 

keen  to  wound — they  were  very  happy.  Their  children 
were  healthy,  handsome,  and  clever.  So  1901  slid  into 
1902.  We  made  peace  in  South  Africa,  and  began  to 
tackle  the  sleeping  sickness  problem  between  the  Nile 
and  the  Zambezi  basins.  The  Japanese  and  the  Rus- 
sians fought  for  the  mastery  over  Eastern  Asia.  This 
caused  a  further  enormous  demand  for  medicine.  Old 
Mr.  Crabtree  died  at  a  most  advanced  age  from  a  boat- 
ing accident  in  Florida  (he  said  as  he  was  dying,  "  I 
know  I  wasn't  going  off  with  any  disease  ").  Should 
Madison  give  up  his  English  home  and  cross  to 
America  to  preside  eventually  over  a  drug  house  of 
enormous  power  and  importance?  Madison  decided 
he  would  abide  by  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.,  and 
try  to  get  naturalised  a  British  subject  and  change  his 
name  to  Harmon.  So  a  mighty  German- American 
group  of  Chicago  and  St.  Louis  bought  up  the  business 
of  Corness  and  Crabtree  for  about  six  million  dollars 
(or  perhaps  it  was  more,  and  they  paid  the  "more  " 
in  shares  of  the  new  venture).  They  kept  the  old  title 
because  of  its  vast  popularity  in  the  United  States,  and 
did  not  run  the  scheme  on  very  different  lines.  Their 
special  purview  extended  over  Canada,  the  United 
States,  and  Mexico,  where  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co. 
engaged  not  to  compete.  Central  America,  the  West 
Indies,  and  South  America  were  left  free  for  both  to 
prosecute  researches  therein,  to  cultivate  and  export 
thence  the  raw  materials  for  drugs  and  there  to  sell 
the  finished  products.  Gradually  it  seemed  as  though 
Central  America  would  pass  to  the  United  States  firm ; 
Colombia,  Peru,  Venezuela,  Guiana  and  Chili  to  the 
English  company;  and  Brazil  and  Argentina  to  the 
Societe  Droguiste  des  Pyrenees.  In  any  case  Harmon, 
Veneering  and  Co.  had  a  greater  or  less  share  in  the 
profits  of  the  other  two  companies. 

What  were  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Corness  to  do?     Their 
girls  were  married  to  United  States   Senators.     Dr. 


430  THE  VENEERINGS 

Corness  was  aged,  in  1903  (when  all  this  was  settled), 
about  70.  Mrs.  Corness — who  of  late  had  called 
herself  Crabtree-Corness — must  have  been  sixty-five. 
Overcome  all  at  once  with  Anglomania  and  a  greater 
longing  for  the  society  of  Madison  and  Helen,  they 
came  to  England  in  1903  on  a  long  visit,  and  finally 
decided  to  live  out  the  remainder  of  their  lives  in  our 
land.  .  .  .  They  must  have  had,  with  their  inheritance 
from  old  Crabtree,  close  on  a  million  pounds.  The 
residue  of  this  amount  would  be  equally  divided  be- 
tween their  three  children  when  they  died,  so  that 
Madison  might  some  day — unless  the  legacy  duty  goes 
up  even  beyond  war-time  limits — inherit  from  them 
two  hundred  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds. 
But  as  they  themselves  objected  to  the  legacy  duty,  and 
knew  their  children  were  at  a  time  of  life  when  it  is  a 
relief  and  a  pleasure  to  spend  money,  they  made,  yearly, 
large  gifts  of  their  capital,  only  intending  to  stop  at  a 
sufficient  minimum  to  secure  themselves  a  comfortable, 
well-provided  existence.  As  they  diet  themselves  most 
carefully  and  at  the  least  sign  of  trouble  take  Harmon- 
Veneering  tablets,  I  have  not  yet  heard  of  their  decease. 
As  to  Madison,  when  his  parents  left  America  and 
finally  settled  down  in  England,  he  yearned  to  identify 
himself  further  with  his  father-in-law.  So,  in  1904, 
he  added  the  maiden  name  of  his  wife  to  his  own,  and 
was  ever  afterwards  "  Madison  Corness-Harmon," 
This  would  be  very  appropriate  if  he  ever  succeeded 
Mervyn  in  the  headship  of  the  firm. 

And  Madame  de  Lamelle — Sophronia  Akershem  of 
1860,  Sophie  Lammle  of  1865 — what  became  of  her? 
She  died  on  June  5,  1906,  at  the  Villa  Cyrnos,  two 
miles  south  of  Pau,  of  some  obscure  valvular  disease 
of  the  heart — something  up  to  then  scarcely  precog- 
nised  by  the  medical  faculty.  All  or  almost  all  causes 
of  death  in  her  system  had  been  neutralised,  warded 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  431 

off,  baulked,  frustrated,  sterilised  by  careful  living  and 
the  vegetable  drugs  dispensed  by  the  Societe  Droguiste 
des  Pyrenees  or  by  Harmon,  Veneering  and  Co.  But 
no  French  doctor  had  detected  or  suspected  the  advance 
of  this  obscure  trouble  in  the  heart-valve.  Had  the 
seizure  occurred  in  the  day-time,  when  people  were 
about  her,  she  might  have  been  restored  to  conscious- 
ness, the  suspended  functions  of  the  heart  might  have 
been  resumed  before  there  was  any  change  in  the  tis- 
sues. As  it  was,  however,  the  heart  must  have  stopped 
beating  about  one  a.m.,  and  the  poor  lady  was  un- 
restorably  dead  at  seven  in  the  morning  when  her  maid 
entered  the  room. 

Georgy  Podsnap  was  so  "  heart-broken,"  whatever 
that  term  may  mean — that  kind  of  death  is  connected 
with  the  brain  rather  than  the  centre  of  our  blood 
circulation — that  she  only  outlived  her  old  friend  by 
some  seven  months,  and  died  on  January  10,  1907. 
The  local  doctor  diagnosed  the  case  as  "  acute  influ- 
enza " ;  an  absurdity,  because  the  terror  of  influenza 
had  died  away  before  the  efficient  remedies  patented  by 
the  Societe  Droguiste  des  Pyrenees  and  by  Messrs. 
Harmon,  Veneering.  But  neither  of  these  mighty  firms 
have  yet  discovered  a  cure  for  real  heart-break. 
Corness  and  Crabtree  (Professor  Hastmann,  Dr. 
Schlab,  Messrs.  Dorneckstein,  and  Mr.  Loeb)  say  you 
can  cure  it  by  taking  tabloids  of  their  powerful  deter- 
gent, "  Ridimol,"  but  this  drug  is  looked  at  rather 
askance  by  the  physicians  of  the  Old  World  and  seldom 
enters  into  their  prescriptions. 

Mme.  de  Lamelle  had  left  her  six  or  seven  hundred 
pounds  a  year  and  many  of  her  possessions  to  Georgy 
for  her  life  and  afterwards  to  be  divided  between 
Jeanne  Dudeffrand  and  Mervyn  Veneering.  The  re- 
mainder of  her  jewellery  she  bequeathed  to  her  old 
friend,  Anastasia  Van  Eering.  Georgy,  in  like  man- 
ner, in  a  will  dated  January,  1887,  had  left  her  £3,500 


432  THE  VENEERINGS 

a  year  and  all  the  rest  of  her  property  firstly  to  be 
enjoyed  for  her  life  by  her  dearest  friend,  Sophie  de 
Lamelle,  and  after  her  death  to  be  divided  equally 
between  her  other  two  dear  friends,  Jeanne  Dudeffrand 
and  Mervyn  Veneerng.  So  you  will  perceive  that 
by  such  a  date,  in  1907,  as  all  these  things  could  be 
rounded  up  and  got  out  of  the  hands  of  the  lawyers, 
Jeanne  and  Mervyn  were  becoming  quite  comfortably 
off.  Mervyn,  however,  from  out  of  his  share  in 
Georgy's  estate,  made  over  £500  a  year  to  his  mother 
as  an  additional  income  for  her  life,  and  £200  a  year 
to  his  brother  Lancelot.  Jeanne  took  over  the  Villa 
Cyrnos  as  the  permanent  home  of  her  family  in  the 
Basses  Pyrenees,  and  engaged,  or,  with  Mervyn's  as- 
sistance, pensioned  off  the  faithful  servants  of  the  two 
ladies. 


CHAPTER   XXII 
ELIZABETH'S  WEDDING  MORNING 

COMMON  sense  had  at  last  prevailed  in  the  House 
of  Commons  with  the  new  Administration  that 
had  come  into  power  at  the  end  of  1905.  In  1906, 
marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister,  in  all  His 
Majesty's  Dominions  outside  the  United  Kingdom, 
was  recognised  as  a  legitimate  marriage  by  the  British 
Parliament  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  In  the  spring 
of  1907  legislation  was  passed  authorising  this 
marriage  taking  place  in  the  United  Kingdom. 

For  a  year  before  the  rainy  summer  of  1907,  there- 
fore, Elizabeth  Veneering  had  been  regarded,  theoreti- 
cally, as  an  honest  woman;  and  several  ladies  of  dis- 
tinction— in  their  own  eyes — had  hastened  to  leave 
cards  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veneering  at  No.  i,  Wigmore 
Street. 

Elizabeth,  in  her  own  opinion,  had  been  properly 
married  to  her  husband  fourteen  years  before  at  the 
registry  office  in  Cape  Town.  Nevertheless,  for  her 
children's  sake  more  than  for  her  own,  she  desired  to 
be  married  to  Mervyn  by  the  law  of  England  at 
Chacely  Church  as  soon  as  it  had  ceased  raining,  and 
they  had  attained  the  leisure  of  the  autumn.  The 
Revd.  Frank  Milvey,  the  comparatively  new  vicar  of 
Chacely,  with  whom  she  conferred,  was  of  the  new 
order  of  clergy  who  had  agreed  to  drop  the  three- 
thousand-year-old  nonsense  of  Exodus-Leviticus,  and 
to  inhibit  no  marriage  that  was  not  an  offence  against 
physiological  prescriptions,  such  as  near  blood-relation- 

433 


434  THE  VENEERINGS 

ship  or  serious  disease.  He  and  Elizabeth,  therefore, 
arranged  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  on  the 
morning  of  the  I5th  of  October,  quite  quietly  and 
unceremoniously.  She  told  Mervyn,  Sir  John  and 
Lady  Harmon,  Reggie,  Madison  and  Helen,  and  her 
children — under  promises  to  say  nothing  about  it. 

October  15,  1907,  dawned  gloriously,  and  at  eight 
o'clock  it  was  a  brilliant  morning.  At  that  time  young 
Hetty  Veneering  was  placing  a  wreath  on  her  dead 
mother's  tomb  in  Chacely  churchyard.  The  small 
wreath  she  had  made  herself  the  night  before  of  green- 
house lilies,  rose-pink  and  white.  A  slight  rustle 
behind — she  turns  her  face — "  Mother!  "  she  cries. 
It  is  Elizabeth,  her  mother's  sister  and  successor, 
advancing  over  the  mown  turf  with  another  wreath  of 
white  carnations  and  myrtle  sprigs.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  they  meet  not  infrequently  with  these  little  tokens 
of  remembrance  at  the  tomb  of  the  dead  woman. 
Elizabeth's  eyes,  this  time,  were  shining  with  tears — 
perhaps — but  also  with  happiness.  Her  dark  hair  was 
uncovered  and  almost  without  a  grey  strand  in  its  rich 
black-brown,  though  she  is  thirty-six — and  Hetty,  the 
younger,  nearly  eighteen. 

"  Darling !  I  might  have  guessed  you  would  be  here 
too,  though  I  said  nothing  to  you  yesterday." 

These  words  might  have  been  uttered  simultaneously 
by  both  of  them.  Elizabeth  puts  her  circle  of  flowers 
at  one  end  of  the  raised  stone  coffer  above  her  sister's 
grave,  and  adjusts  the  wreath  of  the  younger  Hetty 
at  the  other  end.  Each  places  an  arm  round  the  other's 
waist  and  they  stand  thus,  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  Come,  dearest  of  my  children,"  says  Elizabeth, 
"  we  must  be  going  back  to  breakfast — and  there  is  so 
much  else  to  do  to-day." 

"  '  Dearest  of  my  children,'  "  replied  Hetty,  walking 
away  with  her,  their  arms  entwined.  "  That  is  a 
sweet  thing  to  say.  ...  Is  it  true  ?  " 


ELIZABETH'S  WEDDING  MORNING     435 

"  Yes,  quite  true.  But  a  secret  between  you  and  me. 
Don't  tell  it  to  the  others.  I  like  each  in  turn  to  think 
itself  the  specially  beloved.  I  only  tell  you  the  true 
truth — because  something — your  mother's  spirit?  .  .  . 
who  can  say — dictates  the  words?  To  me  you  seem, 
in  a  measure,  my  sister  come  back.  .  .  .  You  will  soon 
be  eighteen,  and  grow  more  like  her  every  day.  ..." 
They  walked,  arms  round  waists,  in  silence,  the  rest 
of  the  way. 

Then  breakfast — and  orders  to  give  and  preparations 
to  suggest  for  a  lunch  that  day  to  many.  "  Our  wed- 
ding breakfast !  "  Elizabeth  says  to  her  cook,  "  and  a 
dinner  perhaps  afterwards  to  the  same  number."  The 
cook  looks  very  wise,  as  if  she  definitely  knew  even 
more  about  it  all  than  her  rather  flurried,  blushing 
mistress. 

Madison  and  Helen  and  their  four  children  were  in 
the  hall  as  Elizabeth  returned  from  seeing  cook.  "  You 
dearest  of  dears,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  haven't  a  moment 
to  lose.  Must  change  my  dress." 

Her  wedding  costume  was  sober  in  cut,  but  beautiful 
and  restful  in  colour — a  silk  that  changed  and  rippled 
in  tint  between  dark  crimson,  glowing  carmine,  and 
bluish  grey;  and  the  hat  that  went  with  it  was  of 
crimson  with  a  white  ostrich  plume.  Thus  dressed, 
she  and  Mervyn — Mervyn  in  a  black  morning  coat, 
white  waistcoat,  and  black,  faintly-striped  trousers, 
with  a  dark  crimson  rose  in  his  button  hole  and  a  dull 
crimson  tie — set  out  to  walk  to  the  village  church — 
quite  unceremoniously.  They  were  followed  by  their 
six  children,  each  carrying  a  little  bunch  of  dark  red 
roses. 

Sir  John  Harmon  and  his  wife  pretexted  things  to 
see  to  up  to  the  very  last,  and  admonished  their  going 
first  to  church  to  set  every  one's  mind  at  rest.  They, 
the  parents,  could  steal  in  quietly  if  they  were  late. 
A  pony  carriage  was  taking  Reggie  and  Helen  (Helen 


436  THE  VENEERINGS 

was  approaching  a  confinement).  Madison  would 
walk  down  just  behind  the  children.  And  so  on,  and 
so  on 

The  church,  when  they  entered  it,  seemed  curiously 
full  for  a  weekday  and  an  occasion  most  carefully 
kept  private.  It  was  indeed  packed,  as  they  proceeded 
to  their  places  before  the  Communion  rails. 

The  Revd.  Frank  Milvey  enters.  The  marriage 
service,  shortened  to  its  essentials,  is  proceeded  with. 
They  are  married  (again)  and  they  proceed  to  the 
vestry  to  write  their  names  in  the  books.  John  Harmon 
and  Bella  are  there — kisses  and  wrung  hands.  But  the 
vestry  is  full  of  other  persons,  other  faces.  .  .  .  Eliza- 
beth tries  to  be  business-like  before  giving  way  to 
affection.  .  .  .  Something  in  the  formulas  before  her 
on  the  vestry  table  disturbs  her.  .  .  .  Curious  letters 
attached  to  Mervyn's  name,  a  strange  prefix  against 
hers.  .  .  .  She  looks  up  at  her  father.  ..."  Is  there 
any  mistake  here?  Is  my  eye-sight  wrong?  " 

"  No  mistake,  darling,  but  you  are  to-day — at  any 
rate — and  shortly  will  be  in  perpetuity  '  Lady  Veneer- 
ing.' The  King — I  have  been  telling  your  surprised 
husband — has,  on  the  advice  of  the  Home  Secretary, 
conferred  on  Mervyn  a  K.C.B.,  in  recognition " — 
Harmon  cleared  his  throat  and  spoke  louder — "  in 
recognition  of  the  splendid  work  he  has  done  for 
medicine  and  the  curing  of  diseases.  .  .  .  We  are 
calling  him  to-day  '  Sir  Mervyn,'  and  you  '  Lady 
Veneering,'  and  very  shortly  that  is  what  every  one 
will  say,  when  the  King  has  knighted  your  husband." 

The  vestry  seemed  as  full  as  ever.  Elizabeth  and 
Mervyn  finished  signing  the  forms  and  looked  round. 
.  .  .  "What! — Gaston! — JEANNE! — MOTHER?  .  .  .  " 
And  Mrs.  Veneering  or  Madame  Van  Eering  advanced 
and  executed  a  very  charming  old-fashioned  curtsey 
before  Elizabeth  could  embrace  her.  .  .  .  And  George 
Sampson  and  Aunt  Lavvy  were  there,  Aunt  Lavvy 


ELIZABETH'S  WEDDING  MORNING     437 

trying  to  look  amiable,  George  not  trying,  but  being 
so  full-hearted  as  to  be  dumb,  and  muscular  in  his 
hand  grips. 

The  vestry  emptied.  Mervyn  gave  Elizabeth  his 
arm,  their  children  reassembled  and  followed.  They 
walked  down  the  central  aisle  of  the  empty  church, 
through  the  old  porch,  out  into  the  golden  sunlight 
and  the  golden  glory  of  the  autumn  foliage.  They 
saw,  stretching  before  them  up  to  Chacely  Priory,  half 
a  mile  away,  two  long  rows  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  and  an  empty  road  through  open  gates 
between  them.  As  they  emerged  to  walk  home,  arm- 
in-arm,  a  great  shout  went  up  in  bass,  tenor,  and  treble : 

"  Sir  Mervyn  and  Lady  Veneering!  .  .  .  Long  live 
— Sir — Mervyn — and — Lady — Veneering !  " 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
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